BETTY  WALES 
SOPhOMORE 


ARGARET  WARDE 


ir 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS 


'THE  THING  TO  DO  is  TO  GIVE  IT  BACK 


Betty  Wales 
Sophomore 


MARGARET  WARDE 

Author  of 

Betty  Wales,  Freshman 
Betty  Wales,  Junior 
Betty  Wales,  Senior 
Betty  Wales,  B.  A. 
Betty  Wales  &  Co. 
Betty  Wales  on  the  Campus 
Betty  Wales  Decides 


THE   PENN  PUBLISHING 
COMPANY  PHILADELPHIA 

1922 


COPYRIGHT 
1905  BY 
THE  PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


Betty  Wales,  Sophomore 


Contents 

CHAP  PACK 

INTRODUCTION 7 

I  MOVING  IN       .........  n 

II     ELEANOR'S  FRESHMAN 25 

III  PARADES  AND  PARTIES 40 

IV  ELEANOR  WATSON,  AUTHORESS    ...  55 
V     POINTS  OF  VIEW 72 

VI     ON  AMBITION 89 

VII     ON  TO  MIDYEARS 106 

VIII     THE  "  FIRST  FOUR  " 121 

IX  THE  COMPLICATIONS  OF  LIFE       .     .     .  141 

X  IN  THE  "  ARGUS  "  SANCTUM    ....  156 

XI     A  PROBLEM  IN  ETHICS 179 

XII  A  BRIEF  FOR  THE  DEFENSE     ....  199 

XIII  VICTORY  OR  DEFEAT 215 

XIV  A  DISTINGUISHED  GUEST 242 

XV     DISAPPOINTMENTS 265 

XVI  DORA  CARLSON'S  "  SUGARING-OFF  "      .  282 

XVII     A  MAY-DAY  RESOLUTION 299 

XVIII     TRIUMPHS  AND  TROUBLES 317 

XIX     GOOD-BYES 336 


2133623 


Betty  Wales,  Sophomore 


CHAPTER  I 

MOVING    IN 

BETTY  WALES  sat  down  on  the  one  small 
bare  spot  on  the  floor  of  her  new  room  at  the 
Belden  House,  and  looked  about  her  with  a 
sigh  of  mingled  relief  and  weariness. 

"  Well,"  she  remarked  to  the  little  green 
lizard,  who  was  perched  jauntily  on  a  pile  of 
pillows,  "  anyhow  the  things  are  all  out  of  the 
trunks  and  boxes,  and  I  suppose  after  a  while 
they'll  get  into  their  right  places." 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  Quarter  to  eight, 
— that  left  just  about  two  hours  before  ten 
o'clock.  Somebody  rapped  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  sang  Betty. 

It  was  Eleanor  Watson.  Betty  leaped  over 
a  motley  collection  of  cups  and  saucers, 
knocked  down  a  Japanese  screen — which 
fortunately  landed  against  a  bed,  instead  of  oii 

ii 


12          BErrr  WALES 

the  cups  and  saucers — and  caught  Eleanor  in 
her  arms. 

"  Isn't  it  great  to  be  back?  "  she  said  when 
she  could  speak,  meanwhile  setting  up  the 
screen  again,  and  moving  trunk-trays  so  they 
might  sit  down  on  the  bed.  "  Are  you 
settled,  Eleanor?" 

"  A  little,"  said  Eleanor,  surveying  Betty's 
quarters  with  amusement.  "  Quite  settled 
compared  to  this,  I  should  say.  Why  do  you 
take  everything  out  at  once,  Betty  ?  " 

"  Oh,  then  they're  all  right  where  I  can  get 
at  them,"  returned  Betty  easily.  "  I  hate 
to  keep  stopping  to  fish  something  out  of 
the  bottom  of  a  box  that  I  haven't  un- 
packed." 

"  I  see,"  laughed  Eleanor.  "  Did  you  have 
a  lovely  summer?  " 

"  Perfectly  lovely.  I  can  swim  like  a  fish, 
Eleanor,  and  so  can  Emily  Davis.  You  don't 
know  her  much,  do  you?  But  you  must. 
She's  lots  of  fun.  Did  you  have  a  good  time 
too?" 

"  Beautiful,"  said  Eleanor,  eagerly.  "  Father 
is  coming  east  before  long  to  see  Jim  and  me, 
and  he  and  Jim  are  coming  on  together  from 


SOPHOMORE  13 

Cornell.  You'll  help  me  entertain  them, 
won't  you,  Betty  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  would,"  Betty  was  say- 
ing heartily,  when  there  was  another  bang  on 
the  door  and  Rachel  and  Katherine  appeared. 
Then  there  was  more  leaping  over  teacups, 
more  ecstatic  greetings,  and  more  readjust- 
ment of  Betty's  belongings  to  make  room  for 
the  newcomers. 

"  Where's  Helen  ?  "  demanded  Rachel,  when 
everybody  was  seated. 

"  Coming  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," explained  Betty.  "  You  see  she  lives  so 
near  that  she  can  come  down  at  the  last 
minute." 

"  It's  lucky  she's  not  here  now,"  laughed 
Katherine.  "  There's  no  room  for  her,  to  say 
nothing  of  her  things." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  agreed  Betty,  tragic- 
ally. "  Girls,  these  campus  rooms  are  certainly 
the  smallest  places  !  This  isn't  half  as  big  as 
ours  at  Mrs.  Chapin's.  And  see  the  closet !  " 
She  picked  her  way  across  the  room,  and 
threw  open  a  door,  disclosing  a  five-by-three 
cupboard.  "  I  ask  you  how  we're  going  to 
get  all  our  clothes  into  that." 


14          BErrr  WALES 

"  Helen  hasn't  many  clothes,"  suggested 
Katherine,  cheerfully. 

"  She  has  plenty  to  put  on  half  those  hooks," 
answered  Betty,  with  finality,  closing  the  door 
on  the  subject,  and  coming  back  to  sit  between 
Eleanor  and  Rachel. 

"  Isn't  the  Chapin  house  crowd  scattered 
this  year?"  said  Katherine.  "Let  me  see. 
You  and  Helen  and  Mary  Brooks  are  here. 
Has  Mary  come  yet  ?  " 

Betty  shook  her  head.  "  Her  steamer  isn't 
due  till  to-morrow  morning.  Didn't  you 
know  she'd  been  in  Ireland  all  summer?" 

"  Won't  it  be  fun  to  hear  her  tell  about 
it?"  put  in  Rachel. 

"  You  three  here,"  went  on  Katherine,  in- 
tent on  her  census,  "  and  you're  at  the  Hilton, 
aren't  you,  Eleanor  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Eleanor  with  a  grimace. 
"  I  wanted  to  be  here,  of  course,  but  Miss 
Stuart  wouldn't  manage  it.  Which  house  are 
you  in,  Rachel  ?  " 

"  I'm  off  the  campus,"  answered  Rachel, 
quietly,  "  at  the  little  white  house  just  out- 
side the  gate.  It's  a  dear,  quaint  place,  and 
delightfully  quiet.  Of  course,  I'd  rather  have 


SOPHOMORE  15 

been  on  the  campus,  but  father  couldn't  afford 
it  this  year." 

"  Make  way,  make  way  for  us ! "  sang  a 
noisy  chorus  out  in  the  hall.  There  were 
shouts  and  shrieks  and  bangs  and  more 
shrieks,  and  then  the  din  died  away  sud- 
denly into  an  ominous  stillness  that  evidently 
heralded  the  approach  of  some  dreaded 
power. 

"  It's  lucky  one  of  us  lives  in  a  quiet  place, 
where  the  rest  of  us  can  take  refuge  occa- 
sionally," said  Eleanor. 

"Isn't  it?"  chimed  in  Katherine.  "I'm 
at  the  Westcott  myself,  and  I  never  heard 
anything  like  the  racket  there  was,  when  the 
girls  began  to  come  in  from  the  eight  o'clock 
train." 

"  Our  crowd  seems  to  have  been  on  hand 
early,"  said  Rachel. 

"  You  know  Betty's  father  doesn't  like  her 
to  travel  alone,"  jeered  Katherine,  "  especially 
after  dark.  Did  he  telegraph  the  registrar 
again  this  year,  Betty  ?  " 

"  Please  don't,"  begged  Betty,  blushing 
prettily.  "  Weren't  we  green  little  freshmen 
though,  at  this  time  last  fall  ?  " 


i6          BErrr  WALES 

"  And  isn't  it  fun  to  be  coming  back  as 
sophomores  ?  "  asked  Rachel. 

"  We  haven't  quite  finished  with  the  resi- 
dences of  the  Chapin  house  girls,"  said 
Eleanor.  "  How  about  Roberta  ?  " 

"  She's  going  to  stay  on  at  Mrs.  Chapin's,  I 
think,"  answered  Katherine.  "  She  couldn't 
get  in  here  at  the  Belden,  and  she  and  Mary 
want  to  be  together." 

"  And  the  Riches  aren't  coming  back,  I 
believe,"  added  Rachel.  "  And  now  I,  for 
one,  must  go  back  and  finish  unpacking." 

Katherine  and  Eleanor  rose  too,  astonished 
to  find  how  fast  the  evening  had  slipped 
away,  and  how  little  time  there  was  left  in 
which  to  get  ready  for  the  busy  "  first  day  " 
ahead  of  them.  When  they  had  all  three 
gone,  Betty  lay  back  on  the  bed,  her  head 
pillowed  on  her  arms,  to  rest  for  a  moment 
longer.  She  was  tired.  The  journey  from 
Rockport  had  been  hot  and  disagreeable,  and 
some  of  her  box  covers  had  been  nailed  on 
with  disheartening  thoroughness.  But  be- 
sides being  tired,  she  was  also  very  happy — 
too  happy  to  turn  her  attention  again  at  once 
to  the  trying  business  of  getting  settled.  In 


SOPHOMORE  17 

spite  of  the  "  perfectly  lovely  "  summer  at  the 
seashore,  she  was  glad  to  be  back  at  Harding. 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  the  life  there. 
There  had  been  only  one  little  blot  to  mar 
her  perfect  enjoyment  of  freshman  year,  and 
that  was  Eleanor's  unexplainable  defection. 
And  now  Eleanor  had  come  back,  fascinating 
as  ever,  but  wonderfully  softened  and  sweet- 
ened. The  old  hauteur  had  not  left  her  face, 
but  it  was  in  the  background,  veiled,  as  it 
were,  by  a  determination  to  be  different, — to 
meet  life  in  a  more  friendly  spirit,  and  to 
make  the  most  of  it  and  of  herself.  Betty 
could  have  hugged  her  for  her  cordial  greet- 
ings to  Katherine  and  Rachel,  and  for  the 
kindly  little  speech  about  Rachel's  boarding- 
place.  The  other  girls  had  been  tactful  too, 
ready  to  meet  Eleanor  half-way  and  to  let 
bygones  be  bygones.  It  was  all  "just 
lovely." 

«f 

Betty  was  picking  herself  up,  intent  upon 
clearing  Helen's  half  of  the  room  at  least, 
before  she  went  to  bed,  when  another  tap 
sounded  on  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  she  called 
eagerly,  expecting  to  see  Roberta,  or  perhaps 
Alice  Waite,  or  even  Dorothy  King.  Instead, 


is          BErrr 

a  tall,  stately  stranger  opened  the  door,  and 
entering,  closed  it  again  after  her. 

"  May  I  come  in  and  talk  to  you  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  live  next  door — that  is,  my  trunks 
aren't  here,  so  I  haven't  begun  living  there  to 
any  great  extent  as  yet.  Don't  stop  working. 
I'll  sit  and  watch ;  or  I'll  help,  if  I  can. 
There  seems  to  be  plenty  doing." 

And  she  sat  down  calmly  in  the  place  that 
Betty  had  just  vacated. 

Betty  was  not  easily  embarrassed,  but  the 
strange  girl's  perfect  composure  and  ease  of 
manner  disconcerted  her.  She  did  not  know 
many  upper  classmen  in  the  Belden  House, 
and  she  could  not  remember  ever  having  seen 
this  one  before.  And  yet  she  surely  was  not 
a  freshman. 

"  Yes,  I — I  am  busy,"  she  stammered.  "  I 
mean,  I  ought  to  be.  But  I've  had  callers  all 
the  evening  long.  Oh,  dear !  I  didn't  mean 
that.  I'm  truly  glad  to  have  you  come,  and  I 
will  keep  on  working,  if  you  don't  mind." 

The  stranger's  eyes  twinkled.  "  Which 
slass  are  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  Sophomore,"  answered  Betty  promptly. 
**  And  you're  an  upper-class  girl,  aren't  you  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  19 

The  stranger  shook  her  head. 

"  No  ?  "  questioned  Betty  in  bewilderment. 
"  Why,  I'm  sure  you're  not  a  sophomore — I 
know  all  the  girls  in  my  class  at  least  by 
sight, — and  of  course  you're  not  a  fresh- 


man." 


"  Why  not?  "  demanded  the  new  girl  gaily. 

Betty  laughed.  "  I  know,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  don't  believe  I  can  explain.  You  seem  too 
much  at  home,  and  too  sure  of  yourself  some- 
how. Now,  are  you  a  freshman  ?  " 

The  stranger  laughed  in  her  turn.  "  Tech- 
nically, yes,"  she  said,  "  really,  no.  This  is 
my  first  year  here,  but  I've  passed  up  all  the 
French  and  Spanish  and  Italian  that  the  in- 
stitution offers,  and  some  of  the  German.  1 
think  myself  that  I  ought  to  rank  as  a  grad- 
uate student,  but  it  seems  there  are  some  lit- 
tle preliminaries  in  the  way  of  Math,  and 
Latin  and  Logic  that  I  have  to  take  before  I 
can  have  my  sheepskin,  and  there's  also  some 
history  and  some  English  literature  which  the 
family  demand  that  I  take.  So  I  don't  know 
just  how  long  I  may  hang  on  here." 

"  How — how  funny  !  "  gasped  Betty. 
"Where  do  you  live?" 


20  BETrr    WALES 

"  Bohemia,  New  York,"  answered  the  new 
girl  promptly. 

Betty  looked  puzzled. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  explained  her  mysterious 
friend,  "  it's  no  use  saying  one  lives  in  New 
York.  Everybody — all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  people — live  in  New  York.  So  I  always 
add  Bohemia." 

"  Bohemia?  "  repeated  Betty  helplessly. 

"Yes,  Bohemia — the  artistic  New  York. 
We  have  a  studio  and  some  other  rooms  up  at 
the  top  of  one  of  those  queer  old  houses  on 
Washington  Square — you  know  it, — funny, 
ramshackle  old  place.  Father  has  afternoons, 
and  mother  and  I  feed  the  lions  and  the  lesser 
animals  with  tea  and  strawberry  jam.  It's 
very  good  fun,  living  in  Bohemia." 

"  And  how  did  you  learn  so  many  lan- 
guages ?  " 

''Oh,  a  little  from  tutors,  but  mostly  from 
living  abroad.  We're  not  in  Bohemia,  New 
York,  very  much.  We  have  a  villa  near 
Sorrento — awfully  out-at-elbows,  but  still  a 
villa ;  and  we've  been  in  Spain  a  good  deal, 
and  once  father  illustrated  a  book  on  Vienna 
— that  was  where  I  learned  my  German, 


SOPHOMORE  21 

Let  me  see — oh,  it's  French  that  I  haven't  ac- 
counted for.  Well,  we  have  some  French  rel- 
atives. They  love  to  have  us  visit  them  at 
their  funny  old  chateau,  because  mother  mends 
their  moth-eaten  tapestries  beautifully,  and 
father  paints  the  family  portraits." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  ?  "  inquired  Betty, 
much  impressed. 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  teach  the  girls  American  slang. 
It  doesn't  amount  to  much,  teaching  French 
girls  slang,  because  they  never  have  any 
chance  to  get  it  off  on  the  men.  But  they  al- 
ways like  it." 

"  Don't  you  know  any  other  languages  ?  " 

"  No — why,  yes  I  do,  too.  I  know  Bengali. 
When  Mademoiselle  asked  me  that  very 
question  this  noon  I  forgot  Bengali.  I 
learned  one  winter  in  India.  I  guess  I'll 
telephone  her — or  no — I'd  rather  see  her 
august  face  when  I  remind  her  of  my  humble 
linguistic  existence.  My  name  is  Madeline 
Ayres.  Now  it's  your  turn,"  ended  the  new 
girl  suddenly. 

"  But  I  haven't  anything  to  tell,"  objected 
Betty,  "  except  that  I'm  Betty  Wales,  in  the 
sophomore  class,  and  live  in  Cleveland. 


22          BErrr 

Please  go  on.  It  sounds  exactly  like  a  fairy 
tale." 

Madeline  Ay  res  shook  her  head.  "  It  may 
now,"  she  said,  "  but  when  you  come  to  think 
it  over,  you'll  decide  that  I  talk  too  much. 
Don't  put  that  green  vase  there.  It  belongs 
on  the  bookcase.  It  just  litters  your  desk 
and  spoils  the  effect  of  that  lovely  water-color. 
Do  you  mind  my  telling  you  ?  " 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  Miss  Ayres  took  her 
departure.  Between  them,  she  and  Betty  had 
made  astonishing  progress  toward  bringing 
order  out  of  the  chaos  that  had  reigned  su- 
preme an  hour  earlier. 

"  It's  so  pretty,  too,"  declared  Betty,  alone 
once  more  with  the  little  green  lizard. 
"  Whatever  she  touches  goes  right  into  place. 
I  suppose  that's  because  she's  always  lived 
with  artists.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  could  do 
something  interesting ! " 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  Betty 
sprang  for  her  light,  for  she  had  the  new 
girl's  terror  of  breaking  the  ten-o'clock  rule, 
which  is  supposed  by  outsiders  to  be  kept  to 
the  letter  on  the  campus.  However,  it  wasn't 
the  matron,  but  only  Nita  Reese,  who  had  a 


SOPHOMORE  23 

single  room  on  the  fourth  floor  and  had  come 
to  say  that  the  three  B's  were  spending  the 
night  with  her,  and  that  they  wished  Betty  to 
hurry  right  along  and  help  eat  up  the  food. 

"  Lights  don't  count  on  the  first  night,  they 
say,"  explained  Nita,  who,  like  Betty,  had 
spent  her  freshman  year  off  the  campus.  "  So 
we've  got  to  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  But  what  are  the  B's  doing  over  here  ?  " 
demanded  Betty  in  perplexity.  "  Have  they 
moved  away  from  the  Westcott  ?  " 

Nita  laughed.  "  No  indeed,  but  the  rest  of 
their  floor  hadn't  come,  and  they  felt  lonely 
and  came  over  to  see  me.  They  say  their 
matron  won't  miss  them  the  first  night,  and 
I'm  sure  I  hope  ours  won't  find  them  here. 
They  seem  to  think  it's  all  right." 

Betty  pulled  on  her  gray  kimono,  brushed 
the  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  and  followed  Nita 
through  the  hall  and  up-stairs  to  the  fourth 
floor.  There  was  a  wilderness  of  trunks  in  the 
narrow  passages.  Every  girl  must  have  three 
at  least,  Betty  thought.  And  their  owners 
appeared  to  be  in  no  haste  about  unpacking  ; 
the  serious  business  of  the  hour  was  conversa- 
tion. They  stopped  to  talk  with  their  neigh- 


24          BErrr  WALES 

bors,  to  greet  newcomers,  to  help  or  hinder 
other  workers  with  questions  and  suggestions. 
Betty  and  Nita  felt  lost  and  rather  friendless 
in  the  big  house,  and  were  strangely  glad  to 
see  one  familiar  face  down  the  corridor  and  to 
get  a  brisk  little  nod  from  a  senior  hurrying 
past  them  on  the  stairs.  But  on  the  fourth 
floor  the  B's  pranced  gaily  out  to  meet  them. 

"  Poor  little  lambs,  just  come  on  the  cam- 
pus," sang  Babe. 

"  'Fraid  to  death  of  the  matron,"  jeered  Bob. 

"  We've  come  to  cheer  you  up,"  ended  Babbie. 

"  Girls,"  said  Betty,  when  the  five-pound 
box  of  chocolates  that  Bob's  father  had 
thoughtfully  provided  was  nearly  empty, 
"  wouldn't  it  be  dreadful  if  we  didn't  know 
each  other  or  anybody?  How  did  we  ever 
manage  last  fall  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  always  do  what  you  have  to," 
returned  Bob  practically. 

"  One  mattress  is  too  narrow  for  four, 
though,"  announced  Babbie,  somewhat  irrel- 
evantly. "  I'm  going  down  to  sleep  with 
you,  Betty.  Come  along." 

Thus  ended  Betty's  first  evening  on  the 
campus. 


CHAPTER  II 

ELEANOR'S  FRESHMAN 

IT  was  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the  great 
day  of  the  sophomore  reception  that  Betty 
Wales  ran  up  two  flights  of  stairs  at  the  Hilton 
House,  and  bursting  into  Eleanor's  "  extra- 
priced  "  corner  single,  flung  herself,  hot  and 
breathless,  into  Eleanor's  Morris  chair. 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  tired,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak.  "  And  dirty,"  she  added,  look- 
ing ruefully  at  the  green  stains  on  the  front  of 
her  pink  linen  suit. 

"  You  also  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry,"  observed 
Eleanor,  who  was  always  vastly  entertained 
by  Betty's  impetuous,  haphazard  methods. 

"I  am,"  said  Betty.  "We're  awfully  be- 
hind with  the  decorating,  and  I  ought  to  rush 

back  to  the  gym  this  very  minute,  but  I " 

she  paused,  then  finished  quickly.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you." 

"  That  was  nice  of  you,"  said  Eleanor  ab- 
sently, sorting  over  the  pages  of  a  theme  she 
had  just  finished  copying.  "  I  helped  wind 


2,6 

the  balcony  railings  with  yellow  cheese-cloth 
all  the  morning,  and  I  thought  I'd  better  fin- 
ish this  before  I  went  back.  I'm  bound  not 
to  get  behind  with  my  work  this  year." 

"  Good  for  you,"  returned  Betty,  cheerfully. 
"  But  I'm  glad  you're  through  now.  I  was 
hoping  you  would  be." 

"  Did  the  chairman  send  you  after  me  ?  " 
asked  Eleanor,  fastening  her  sheets  together, 
and  writing  her  name  on  the  first  one. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Betty,  quickly.  "  She  didn't 
at  all.  I  wanted  to  see  you  myself." 

Eleanor  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice 
Betty's  embarrassment.  "  Who  is  it  that 
you're  going  to  take  to-night?"  she  asked. 
"  You  told  me,  but  I've  forgotten,  and  I  want 
to  put  her  name  on  my  card." 

"  I  asked  Madeline  Ayres "  began 

Betty. 

"  You  lucky  thing !  "  broke  in  Eleanor. 
"  She's  the  most  interesting  girl  in  her  class, 
I  think,  and  she's  going  to  be  terribly  popu- 
lar. She's  a  class  officer  already,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,  secretary.  I'm  glad  you  like  her, 
because  I  came  over  to  see  if  you  wouldn't 
take  her,  in  my  place." 


SOPHOMORE  27 

"  I  ?  "  said  Eleanor,  in  perplexity.  "  Why, 
I'm  going  to  take  Polly  Eastman, — Jean's 
freshman  cousin,  you  know.  Do  you  mean 
you  want  me  to  take  Miss  Ayres  too  ?  Are 
you  sick,  Betty  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Betty,  hastily,  "  but  Polly  East- 
man is.  She's  got  the  mumps  or  the  measles 
or  something.  Jean  told  me  about  it,  and  an 
A.  D.  T.  boy  was  just  leaving  a  note  for  you 
— from  Polly,  I  suppose — when  I  came  up. 
She's  gone  to  the  infirmary." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Eleanor.  "  She  missed 
the  freshman  frolic,  and  she's  been  counting 
on  to-night.  I  had  such  a  ^ovely  card  for  her, 
too.  Pity  it's  got  to  go  to  waste.  Well,  she 
can  have  her  violets  all  the  same.  I'll  go 
down  and  telephone  Clarke's  to  send  them  to 
the  infirmary.  But  I  don't  see  yet  why  you 
want  me  to  take  Miss  Ayres,  Betty." 

"  Because,"  said  Betty,  "  we've  just  discov- 
ered a  left-over  freshman.  She  lives  way 
down  at  the  end  of  Market  Street,  and  she  en- 
tered late,  and  somehow  her  name  wasn't  put 
on  the  official  list.  But  this  morning  she  was 
talking  to  a  girl  in  her  Math,  division,  and 
when  the  other  girl  spoke  about  the  recep- 


28          BErrr  WALES 

tion,  this  one — her  name  is  Dora  Carlson — . 
hadn't  heard  of  it.  So  the  other  freshmen 
very  sensibly  went  in  and  told  the  registrar 
about  it,  and  the  registrar  sent  word  to  the 
gym.  And  then  Jean  said  that  her  cousin 
was  ill,  so  I  came  over  to  see  if  you'd  take 
Madeline,  and  let  me  take  Miss  Carlson.  Now 
please  say  '  yes '  right  off,  so  that  I  can  go  and 
change  my  dress  and  hurry  down  and  ask  the 
poor  little  thing." 

Eleanor  got  up  and  came  over  to  sit  on  the 
arm  of  the  Morris  chair.  "  Betty  Wales,"  she 
said,  with  mock  severity,  but  with  an  under- 
tone of  very  real  ^mpunction  in  her  voice, 
"  do  you  think  I'd  do  that  ?  Have  I  ever 
been  quite  so  mean  as  you  make  me  out? 
Did  you  really  think  I'd  take  Miss  Ayres  and 
let  you  take  Miss  Carlson  ?  You're  absurd, 
Betty, — you  are  absurd  sometimes,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am,"  began  Betty, 
"but " 

"  It's  perfectly  simple,"  broke  in  Eleanor. 
"  You  go  straight  back  to  the  gym  and  work 
for  the  two  of  us,  while  I  go  and  invite  Miss 
Carlson  to  go  with  me  to  the  reception. 
Where  did  you  say  she  lives?  " 


SOPHOMORE  29 

"  Number  50  Market  Street.  Oh,  Eleanor, 
will  you  really  take  her?  She's  probably — 
oh,  not  a  bit  your  kind,  you  know,"  ended 
Betty,  doubtfully. 

"  Trust  me  to  give  her  the  time  of  her  life 
all  the  same,"  said  Eleanor,  decidedly,  putting 
on  her  hat. 

"  Oh,  Eleanor,  you  are  a  gem,"  declared 
Betty,  excitedly.  "I'll  go  and  get  Helen  to 
take  your  place  at  the  gym.  Good-bye." 
And  she  was  off. 

As  Eleanor  went  down  the  steps  of  the  Hil- 
ton House,  she  looked  regretfully  over  at  the 
gymnasium.  They  were  dumping  another 
load  of  evergreen  boughs  at  the  door.  The 
horse  was  restless.  It  took  three  girls  to  hold 
him,  and  three  more,  with  much  shouting  and 
laughter,  to  unload  the  boughs.  Through  one 
window  she  could  see  Rachel  and  Alice  Waite 
stringing  incandescent  lights  into  Japanese 
lanterns.  Katherine  Kittredge  was  standing 
behind  them  in  her  gym  suit.  She  had  evi- 
dently been  hanging  lanterns  along  the  rafters. 
It  had  been  bad  enough  to  stay  at  home  and 
copy  her  theme.  Now  the  decorating  would 
be  finished  and  the  fun  almost  over,  before 


30 

she  could  get  back.  Eleanor  shrugged  hei 
shoulders  and  turned  resolutely  away,  trying 
to  remember  whether  Market  Street  was  just 
above  or  just  below  the  station. 

Before  she  had  reached  the  campus  gate, 
she  heard  some  one  calling  her  name.  It  was 
Jean  Eastman. 

"  What's  your  hurry  ?  "  panted  Jean.  "  Did 
you  get  Polly's  note  ?  And  why  aren't  you 
at  the  gym  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  got  the  note,"  answered  Eleanor. 
"  I'm  more  than  sorry  for  Polly,  and  for  my- 
self, too.  I  shall  get  back  to  the  gym  as  soon 
as  I  can,  but  I  have  to  ask  another  freshman 
to  the  reception  first." 

"  Who  ?  "  demanded  Jean. 

"  Miss  Carlson,"  answered  Eleanor  simply. 

"  Oh,  that !  Don't  you  think,  Eleanor,  that 
you're  getting  a  little  quixotic  in  your  old 
age?" 

Her  scornful  tone  was  very  exasperating, 
and  Eleanor  straightened  haughtily.  "  I  don't 
think  either  of  us  need  worry  about  being  too 
charitable  just  yet  awhile,"  she  began.  Then 
she  caught  herself  up  sharply.  "  Don't  let's 
get  to  bickering,  Jean.  You  know  I  ought  to 


SOPHOMORE  31 

ask  her,  and  you  know  how  much  I  want  to. 
But  I'm  going  to  do  it,  and  I  expect  every  girl 
on  my  program  to  help  make  her  have  just  as 
good  a  time  as  if  she  were  one  of  us."  And 
Eleanor  was  off  down  the  hill,  leaving  Jean 
gazing  amazedly  after  her. 

Jean  had  no  clue  to  the  new  Eleanor,  whose 
strange  toleration  of  the  world  in  general  an- 
noyed the  "  Hill  girls "  (as  those  who  had 
come  from  the  Hill  School  were  called)  more 
than  her  high-handed  attempts  to  run  her  own 
set,  and  her  eventual  wrecking  of  its  influ- 
ence, had  done  the  year  before.  But  the  Hill 
girls  appreciated  Eleanor's  ability,  and  they 
had  resolved  among  themselves  to  wait  a  little 
and  see  what  happened,  before  declaring  open 
war. 

Somebody  came  to  call  just  before  dinner, 
and  Betty  was  consequently  late  in  dressing 
for  the  reception.  But  in  the  midst  of  her 
frantic  efforts  to  make  her  own  toilette  and 
help  Helen  with  hers,  she  had  time  to  wonder 
what  Dora  Carlson  was  like  and  how  she  and 
Eleanor  would  get  on  together.  She  knew 
that  Eleanor  was  equal  to  any  emergency,  if 
she  cared  to  exert  herself,  but  the  question 


32          BErrr  WALES 

was :  would  Dora  Carlson  in  the  concrete 
arouse  the  best — or  the  worst — of  her  nature  ? 
Betty  loved  Eleanor  in  spite  of  everything,  but 
she  had  to  admit  to  herself  that  a  timid  little 
freshman  might  infinitely  prefer  staying  at 
home  from  the  sophomore  reception  to  going 
in  Eleanor's  company,  if  she  happened  to  be 
in  a  bad  mood.  And  furthermore,  as  Betty 
lost  her  temper  over  Helen's  girdle,  which 
would  go  up  in  front  and  down  behind,  com- 
pletely spoiling  the  effect  of  an  otherwise 
pretty  evening  dress,  she  was  in  a  position  to 
realize  that  trying  to  help  is  by  no  means  the 
soul-inspiring  thing  that  it  sometimes  seems 
in  contemplation. 

But  she  need  not  have  worried  about  Dora 
Carlson,  who,  having  lived  alone  with  her 
father  on  a  farm  in  the  environs  of  a  little 
village  in  Ohio,  and  kept  house  for  him  ever 
since  she  was  twelve  years  old,  was  abundantly 
able  to  take  care  of  herself.  She  was  not  at 
all  timid,  though  she  was  not  aggressive  either, 
and  she  had  a  quaint  way  of  expressing  her- 
self that  would  have  interested  almost  any 
one.  But  it  was  the  frank  good-nature  with 
which  she  accepted  her  eleventh  hour  in  vita- 


SOPHOMORE  33 

tion  that  appealed  most  to  Eleanor,  newly 
alive  to  the  charm  that  lies  in  courageously 
making  the  best  of  a  bad  matter.  For  half 
an  hour  Eleanor  devoted  herself  to  finding 
out  something  about  Miss  Carlson  and  to  mak- 
ing her  feel  at  ease  and  happy  in  her  company. 
Then  she  went  off  to  order  a  carriage  and 
twice  as  many  violets  as  she  had  sent  to  Polly 
Eastman,  and  to  find  a  maid  who  would  press 
out  her  white  mull  dress, — this  in  spite  of  her 
decision,  an  hour  earlier,  that  the  white  mull 
was  much  too  pretty  to  waste  on  a  promis- 
cuous crush  like  the  sophomore  reception. 

As  a  result  of  all  these  preparations,  Dora 
Carlson  arrived  at  the  gymnasium  in  a  state 
of  mind  that  she  herself  aptly  compared  to 
Cinderella's  on  the  night  of  her  first  ball. 
She  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  beautiful, 
and  she  had  never  seen  any  one  so  absolutely 
lovely  as  Eleanor  in  evening  dress.  It  was 
pleasure  enough  just  to  watch  her,  to  hear  her 
talk  to  other  people,  and  to  feel  that  she — 
Dora  Carlson — had  some  part  and  lot  in  this 
fascinating  being,  who  had  suddenly  appeared 
to  her  as  from  another  world.  But  Eleanor 
had  no  intention  of  keeping  her  freshman  in 


34 

the  background.  All  through  the  reception 
that  preceded  the  dancing  she  took  her  from 
group  to  group,  introducing  her  to  sophomores 
whom  she  would  dance  with  later  and  to 
prominent  members  of  her  own  class.  Elea- 
nor Watson  might  be  considered  odd  and 
freakish  by  the  Hill  girls,  and  very  snobbish 
by  the  rest  of  the  college ;  but  nobody  of 
either  persuasion  cared  to  ignore  her,  when 
she  chose  to  make  advances.  And  there  was, 
besides,  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  about  the 
short,  dark  little  freshman,  with  the  merry 
brown  eyes,  the  big,  humorous  mouth,  and 
the  enormous  bunch  of  Parma  violets  pinned 
to  the  front  of  her  much-washed,  tight-sleeved 
muslin.  Why  in  the  world  had  the  "  snob  of 
snobs  "  chosen  to  bring  her  to  the  reception  ? 
Eleanor  knew  how  to  utilize  this  curiosity  for 
Miss  Carlson's  advantage.  She  took  pains, 
too,  to  turn  the  conversation  to  topics  in  which 
the  child  could  join.  She  was  determined 
that,  as  far  as  this  one  evening  went,  the 
plucky  little  freshman  from  Ohio  should  have 
her  chance.  Afterward  her  place  in  the  col- 
lege world  would  of  course  depend  largely  on 
herself. 


SOPHOMORE  35 

"  Do  you  dance  ?  "  asked  Eleanor,  when  the 
music  for  the  first  waltz  began.  And  when 
Miss  Carlson  answered  with  a  delighted  "  yes," 
Eleanor,  who  always  refused  to  lead,  and  de- 
tested both  crowds  and  "  girl  dances,"  reso- 
lutely picked  up  her  train  and  started  off. 

Betty  Wales  and  Jean  Eastman,  who  had 
taken  their  freshmen  up  into  the  gallery, 
where  they  could  look  down  at  the  dancers, 
saw  her  and  exchanged  glances. 

"  More  than  she's  ever  done  for  me,"  said 
Jean,  resignedly. 

"  Isn't  it  nice  of  her?  "  returned  Betty,  with 
enthusiasm. 

And  Jean,  meditating  on  the  matter  later, 
decided  shrewdly  that  Betty  Wales  was  some- 
how at  the  bottom  of  Eleanor's  unexplainable 
change  of  heart,  and  advised  the  Hill  girls 
to  make  a  determined  effort  to  monopolize 
Eleanor's  time  and  interest,  before  she  had 
become  hopelessly  estranged  from  their  coun- 
sels. But  to  all  their  attentions  Eleanor  paid 
as  little  heed  as  she  did  to  the  persistent 
appeals  of  Paul  West,  a  friend  at  Winsted  Col- 
lege, a  few  miles  away,  that  she  should  give 
up  "slaving  over  something  you  don't  care 


36          BErrr  WALES 

about  and  come  over  to  our  next  dance."  To 
the  Hill  girls  Eleanor  gave  courteous  but  firm 
denials,  and  she  wrote  Paul  West  that  once 
in  three  weeks  was  as  often  as  she  had  time 
for  callers. 

"And  you  really  had  a  good  time?"  said 
Eleanor,  riding  down  to  Market  Street  to  see 
Miss  Carlson  home. 

"  Splendid  !  "  said  Miss  Carlson,  heartily. 
"  I'm  sorry  your  first  partner  was  sick,  but  1 
guess  I  enjoyed  it  fully  as  much  as  she  would. 
Your  friends  were  all  so  nice  to  me." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Eleanor,  relieved 
to  find  that  Dora  had  not  apparently  noticed 
Jean  Eastman's  insolent  manner,  nor  the  care- 
less self-absorption  of  one  or  two  of  her  other 
partners.  "  And  now  that  you've  met  the 
girls,"  she  added  practically,  "  you  mustn't 
let  them  forget  you.  Making  friends  is  one 
of  the  nicest  things  about  college." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  responded  the  little  fresh- 
man, quickly.  "  1  quite  agree  with  you,  but  I 
don't  expect  to  make  any.  I  guess  it's  like 
other  gifts.  It  doesn't  come  natural  to  some 
people.  But,"  she  added,  brightening,  "  I 
came  here  to  learn  Greek  and  Latin,  so  that 


SOPHOMORE  37 

I  can  teach  and  support  my  father  in  his 
old  age.  And  the  good  time  I've  had  to-night 
is  enough  to  last  me  for  one  while,  I  guess." 

Eleanor  put  out  a  slim,  white  hand  and 
caught  Miss  Carlson's  hard,  brown  one  impet- 
uously in  hers.  "Don't,"  she  said.  "That 
isn't  the  way  things  are  here.  Good  times 
don't  have  to  last,  because  one  always  leads 
to  another.  Why,  I  know  another  that's 
coming  to  you  very  soon.  I've  had  a  good 
deal  of  company  for  dinner  lately  and  I  can't 
ask  for  a  place  again  right  away,  but  the  first 
Sunday  that  I  can  arrange  it,  you're  coming 
up  to  have  dinner  with  me  at  the  Hilton 
House.  Will  you  ?  " 

Jean  Eastman  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about 
Eleanor's  freshman  crush,  as  she  called  Dora 
Carlson.  It  was  foolish,  she  said,  and  not  in 
good  taste,  to  send  a  bunch  of  violets  as  big 
as  your  head  to  a  perfect  stranger,  whom  you 
never  expected  to  see  again.  Later,  after 
Dora's  appearance  at  the  Hilton  for  Sunday 
dinner,  Jean  declared  that  it  was  a  shame  for 
Eleanor  to  invite  her  up  there  and  make  her 
think  she  really  liked  her,  when  it  was  only 
done  for  effect,  and  she  would  drop  the  poor 


38         BErrr  WALES 

child  like  a  hot  coal  the  minute  she  felt  in» 
clined  to. 

Even  Betty  Wales  failed  to  understand 
Eleanor's  interest  in  the  quaint  little  fresh- 
man, and  she  and  the  other  Chapin  house 
girls  rallied  her  heartily  about  Miss  Carlson's 
open  and  unbounded  adoration. 

"  Please  don't  encourage  the  poor  thing  so," 
laughed  Katherine,  one  day  not  long  after 
the  reception.  "  Why,  yesterday  morning  at 
chapel  I  looked  up  in  the  gallery  and  there 
she  was  in  the  front  row,  hanging  over  the 
railing  as  far  as  she  dared,  with  her  eyes 
glued  to  you.  Some  day  she'll  fall  off,  and 
then  think  how  you'll  feel,  when  the  presi- 
dent talks  about  the  terrible  evils  of  the  crush 
system,  and  stares  straight  at  you." 

Eleanor  took  their  banter  with  perfect  good- 
nature, and  seemed  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise at  Miss  Carlson's  devotion. 

"I  like  her,"  she  said  stoutly.  "That's 
why  I  encourage  her,  as  you  call  it.  Now, 
Helen  Adams  doesn't  interest  me  at  all.  She 
keeps  herself  to  herself  too  much.  But  Dora 
Carlson  is  so  absolutely  frank  and  straight- 
forward, and  so  competent  and  quick  to  see 


SOPPIOMORE  39 

through  things.  She  ought  to  have  been  a 
man.  Then  she  could  go  west  and  make  her 

fortune.     As    it   is "     Eleanor   shrugged 

her  shoulders,  in  token  that  she  had  no  fea- 
sible suggestion  ready  in  regard  to  Dora  Carl- 
son's future. 

To  Betty,  in  private,  she  went  much  further. 
"  You  don't  know  what  you  did  for  me,  Betty, 
when  you  made  me  ask  that  child  to  the  re- 
ception. Nobody  ever  cared  for  me,  or  trusted 
me,  as  she  does — or  for  the  reasons  that  she 
does.  I  hope  I  can  show  her  that  I'm  worth 
it,  but  it's  going  to  be  hard  work.  And  it 
will  be  a  bad  thing  for  her,  and  a  worse  thing 
for  me,  if  I  fail." 


CHAPTER  III 

PARADES  AND  PARTIES 

IT  was  surprising  how  well  the  girl  from 
Bohemia  fitted  into  the  life  at  Harding.  She 
had  never  experienced  an  examination  or 
even  a  formal  recitation  until  the  beginning 
of  her  freshman  term.  She  had  seldom  lived 
three  months  in  any  one  place,  and  she  had 
grown  up  absolutely  without  reference  to  the 
rules  and  regulations  and  conventions  that 
meant  so  much  to  the  majority  of  her  fellow- 
students.  But  she  did  not  find  the  recitations 
frightful,  nor  the  simple  routine  of  life  irk- 
some. She  was  willing  to  tell  everybody  who 
cared  to  listen  what  she  had  seen  of  French 
pensions,  Italian  beggars,  or  Spanish  bull- 
fights. It  astonished  her  to  find  that  her 
experiences  were  unique,  because  she  had  al- 
ways accepted  them  as  comparatively  com- 
monplace ;  but  her  pity  for  the  girls  who  had 
never  been  east  of  Cape  Cod  nor  west  of 
Harding, — there  were  two  of  them  at  the 

40 


SOPHOMORE  41 

Belden, — was  quite  untinged  with  self-con- 
gratulation. 

She  was  very  much  amused  and  not  a  little 
pleased,  by  her  election  to  the  post  of  class 
secretary. 

"  They  did  it  because  I  passed  up  four 
languages,"  she  explained  to  Betty.  "  Some- 
how it  got  around — I'm  sure  I  never  meant 
to  boast  of  it — and  they  seemed  to  think  they 
ought  to  show  their  appreciation.  Nice  of 
them,  wasn't  it?  But  I  fancy  I  shan't  have  a 
large  international  correspondence.  It  would 
have  been  more  to  the  point  if  they'd  found 
out  whether  I  can  write  plainly."  And  the 
girl  from  Bohemia  chuckled  softly. 

"  What's  the  joke?"  inquired  Betty. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Madeline,  "  only  I 
can't.  Miss  Felton  made  me  spell  off  every 
word  of  my  Spanish  examination  paper,  be- 
cause she  couldn't  read  it,  and  I  can't  read 
my  last  theme  myself,"  and  she  laughed  again 
merrily. 

"  Let's  see  it,"  demanded  Betty,  reaching 
for  the  paper  at  the  top  of  the  pile  on  Made- 
line's desk. 

"That's  next  week's,"  said  Madeline.     "I 


42  BETTY    WALES 

thought  I'd  do  them  both  while  I  was  at  it 
But  this  week's  is  funnier." 

"  This  week's  "  proved  to  be  an  absurd  in- 
cident founded  upon  the  illegibility  of  Henry 
Ward  Beecher's  handwriting.  It  was  cleverly 
told,  but  the  cream  of  its  humor  lay  in 
the  fact  that  Madeline's  writing,  if  not  so 
bad  as  Mr.  Beecher's,  was  certainly  bad 
enough. 

11  Maybe  Miss  Raymond  can  make  out  what 
he  really  wrote,  but  I've  forgotten  now,  and  I 
can't,"  said  Madeline,  tossing  the  theme  back 
on  the  pile.  "  And  I  didn't  try  to  write  badly 
either.  It  just  happened." 

Everything  "just  happened  "  with  Madeline 
Ayres.  Betty  had  said  that  things  fell  into 
place  for  her,  and  people  seemed  to  have  a 
good  deal  the  same  pleasant  tendency.  But  if 
they  did  not,  Madeline  seldom  exerted  herself 
to  make  them  do  her  bidding.  She  admired 
hard  work,  and  did  a  good  deal  of  it  by  fits 
and  starts.  But  she  detested  wire-pulling,  and 
took  an  instant  dislike  to  Eleanor  Watson  be- 
cause some  injudicious  person  told  her  that 
Eleanor  had  said  she  was  sure  to  be  popular 
and  prominent  at  Harding. 


SOPHOMORE  43 

"  What  nonsense !  "  she  said,  with  a  flash  of 
scorn  in  her  slumberous  hazel  eyes.  "  How  it 
spoils  life  to  count  up  the  chances  like  that  I 
How  it  takes  the  fun  out  of  everything  I  The 
right  way  is  to  go  ahead  and  enjoy  yourself, 
arid  work  your  prettiest,  and  take  things  when 
they  come.  They  always  come — if  you  give 
them  a  little  time,"  she  added  with  a  return 
of  her  usual  serenity. 

So  it  was  wholly  a  matter  of  chance  that 
Madeline  Ayres  should  have  succeeded  in 
turning  Helen  Chase  Adams  into  an  athlete. 
Helen  had  come  to  college  with  several  very 
definite  theories  about  life,  most  of  which  had 
been  shattered  at  the  start.  She  had  promptly 
revised  her  idea  of  a  college  in  conformity 
with  what  she  found — and  loved — at  Hard- 
ing. She  had  decided,  with  some  reluctance, 
that  she  had  been  mistaken  in  supposing  that 
all  pretty  girls  were  stupid.  But  she  still  be- 
lieved that  genius  is  an  infinite  capacity  for 
taking  pains — laying  no  very  stringent  em^ 
phasis  on  the  "  infinite  "  ;  and  she  was  deter- 
mined to  prove  the  truth  of  that  bold,  if 
somewhat  elusive,  assertion,  at  least  to  the  ex- 
tent of  showing  that  she,  Helen  Chase  Adams, 


44         BErrr  WALES 

could  make  a  thoroughgoing  success  of  her 
college  course. 

Success  may  mean  anything.  To  Helen 
Adams  it  had  meant,  ever  since  the  day  of 
the  sophomore-freshman  basket-ball  game,  the 
ability  to  write  something  that  would  interest 
her  classmates.  It  might  be  a  song  that  they 
would  care  to  sing,  or  a  little  verse  or  a  story 
that  Miss  Raymond  would  read  in  her  theme 
class,  as  she  had  Mary  Brooks 's  version  of  the 
Chapin  house  freshmen's  letters  home,  and 
that  the  girls  would  listen  to  and  laugh 
over,  and  later  discuss  and  compliment  her 
upon.  It  was  not  that  she  wanted  the  com- 
pliments, but  they  would  measure  her  success. 

Helen  admired  the  girl  from  Bohemia  be- 
cause she  could  write — Betty  had  told  her 
about  the  Henry  Ward  Beecher  theme, — also 
because  she  was  quick  and  keen,  seldom  hur^ 
ried  or  worried  out  of  her  habitual  serenity, 
and  finally  because  Betty  admired  her. 
Madeline  Ayres,  for  her  part,  thought  of 
Helen  chiefly  as  Betty's  roommate,  noticed  the 
awkward  little  forward  tilt  of  her  head  just  as 
she  had  noticed  the  inharmonious  arrange- 
ment of  Betty's  green  vase,  and  commented 


SOPHOMORE  45 

upon  the  one  in  exactly  the  same  spirit  that 
she  had  called  attention  to  the  other. 

"  You  ought  to  go  in  for  gym,"  she  said  one 
afternoon  when  she  had  strolled  into  Betty's 
room  and  found  only  Helen.  "  It  would 
straighten  you  up,  and  make  you  look  like  a 
different  person.  I'm  going  in  for  it  myself, 
hard.  I'm  hoping  that  it  will  cure  my 
slouchy  walk,  and  turn  me  out  '  a  marvel  of 
grace  and  beauty,'  as  the  physical  culture  ad- 
vertisements always  say.  Let's  be  in  the  same 
class,  so  that  we  can  practice  things  together 
at  home." 

"  But  I  should  take  sophomore  gym  and 
you'd  be  with  the  freshmen,"  objected  Helen. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  freshman  gym  too? 
You  can't  do  the  exercises  any  too  well,  can 
you?" 

"  No,"  admitted  Helen,  frankly.  "  I  cut  a 
lot  last  year,  and  I  couldn't  do  them  any- 
way." 

"  Don't  you  hate  to  struggle  along  when 
you're  not  ready  to  go  ?  "  asked  the  girl  from 
Bohemia. 

Helen  agreed  that  she  did,  and  a  moment 
later  they  were  comparing  schedules  and  de- 


WALES 

ciding  upon  a  class  which  they  could  both 
join.  It  came  directly  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  and  Helen  Adams  had  always  con- 
sidered gym  at  any  hour  a  flagrant  waste  of 
time ;  but  she  did  not  say  so.  There  had 
been  something  in  Madeline's  outspoken 
reference  to  her  awkward  carriage  that,  with- 
out hurting  her,  had  struck  home.  Helen 
Chase  Adams  aspired  to  literary  honors  at 
Harding ;  to  this  desire  was  suddenly  added  a 
violent  ambition  to  be  what  Madeline  had 
termed  "  a  marvel  of  grace." 

Betty  was  amazed,  when  she  came  in  a  little 
later,  to  find  Helen  trying  on  her  gym  suit. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?"  she 
demanded.  "  Gym  doesn't  begin  for  two 
weeks  yet." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Helen,  "  but  the  neck  of 
my  suit  never  was  right.  It's  awfully  unbe- 
coming. How  would  you  fix  it  ?  " 

"  You  frivolous  thing  I  "  laughed  Betty, 
squinting  at  the  unbecoming  neck  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  It's  too  high  behind,  that's  all.  Rip 
off  the  collar  and  I'll  cut  it  down.  And  I 
have  an  extra  blue  tie  that  you  can  have — it 
needs  a  tie.  But  I  thought  you'd  manage  to 


SOPHOMORE  47 

get  an  excuse  from  gym,  when  you  hate  it 


so." 


"  Perhaps  I  shan't  hate  it  this  year,"  ven- 
tured Helen,  and  neither  then  nor  later  did 
Betty  exactly  understand  her  roommate's  sud- 
den devotion  to  parallel  bars,  ropes,  the  run- 
ning track,  and  breathing  exercises.  But  in 
time  she  did  thoroughly  appreciate  the  results 
of  this  physical  training.  Helen  Chase 
Adams  was  never  exactly  "a  marvel  of  grace"  ; 
but  she  was  erect  and  supple,  with  considerable 
poise  and  dignity  of  bearing,  when  she  left 
Harding. 

Another  thing  that  Madeline  Ayres  <l  hap- 
pened upon "  was  the  Republican  parade. 
Presidential  elections  had  been  celebrated  in 
various  ways  at  Harding.  There  had  been 
banners  spread  to  the  breeze,  songs  and  bells 
in  the  night-watches,  mock  caucuses  and  con- 
ventions, campaign  speeches,  and  Australian 
balloting,  before  election  time.  But  the  pa- 
rade was  of  Madeline's  invention. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  on  the  evening 
after  election  day  that  she  appeared  in  Mary 
Brooks's  door  —  she  had  made  friends  with 
Mary  almost  as  easily  as  Betty  had. 


48 

11 1  say,"  she  said,  dropping  off  her  rain-coat 
and  displaying  a  suit  of  manly  black  beneath, 
to  match  the  short  brown  wig  above.  "  Let's 
have  a  Republican  parade.  Who'll  be  the 
defeated  candidate,  in  chains?" 

Then  she  smiled  broadly,  displaying  rows  of 
even  white  teeth,  and  Mary  grasped  the  situ- 
ation in  a  moment. 

"  I'm  with  you,  Roosevelt,"  she  said. 
"  Nita  Reese  can  be  the  defeated  one.  I'll  go 
and  get  her." 

"  And  you  be  leader  of  the  band,"  said 
Madeline.  "  You  get  combs  and  I'll  get  tin 
pans." 

"  Let's  take  up  a  collection  and  have  ice- 
cream later,"  proposed  Mary. 

"  All  right.  I'll  tell  Betty  to  see  to  that. 
I've  got  to  lead  a  strenuous  life  finding  clothes 
for  Fairbanks,"  and  "  President  Roosevelt " 
disappeared  down  the  hall. 

Promptly  at  nine  the  parade  assembled  on 
the  third  floor  corridor.  The  president  elect 
was  drawn  in  an  express  wagon,  except  down 
the  stairs  between  floors.  Out  of  considera- 
tion for  the  weight  of  his  chains  the  defeated 
candidate  was  allowed  to  ride  in  a  barouche, 


SOPHOMORE  49 

alias  a  rocking-chair.  But  he  objected  to  rid* 
ing  backward,  and  the  barouche  would  not 
move  the  other  way  round,  so  he  accepted  the 
arm  of  the  leader  of  the  band  and  walked, 
chains  and  all.  The  vice-president  walked 
from  the  start.  At  intervals  of  five  minutes 
one  or  both  of  the  successful  candidates  made 
speeches.  The  defeated  candidate  wished  to 
do  likewise,  but  the  other  two  drowned  him 
out.  Between  times  the  band,  composed  of 
all  the  Belden  House  who  could  play  on 
combs  or  who  could  find  tin  pans,  discoursed 
sweet  music.  Those  who  could  not  do  either 
formed  what  Mary  Brooks  called  "  a  female 
delegation  of  the  G.  O.  P.  from  Colorado,"  and 
closed  in  the  rear  of  the  procession  in  a  most 
imposing  manner. 

The  vice-president  elect  wanted  to  make  a 
tour  of  the  campus  houses,  but  the  twenty 
minutes  to  ten  bell  rang,  and  there  was  only 
time  to  eat  the  ice  cream. 

The  fact  that  Roberta  Lewis,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  Mary's  room  when  the  presi- 
dent made  his  first  call,  laughed  herself  into 
hysterics  over  the  parade,  proves  that  it  was 
funny.  The  further  fact  that  she  had  firmly 


50  BETTT   WALES 

decided  to  leave  college  at  Christmas  time,  but 
changed  her  mind  after  she  had  seen  the 
parade,  shows  that  even  "  impromptu  stunts  " 
are  not  always  as  silly  and  futile  as  they  seem. 

But  before  the  Republican  parade  came 
Hallowe'en,  and  Hallowe'en  on  the  campus  is 
not  a  thing  to  pass  over  lightly.  Each  house 
has  some  sort  of  party,  generally  in  costume. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  rivalry,  and  as  every 
house  wishes  to  see  and  judge  of  the  achieve- 
ments of  its  neighbors,  the  most  interesting 
encounters  are  likely  to  take  place  midway 
between  houses,  on  the  journeys  from  one 
party  to  another. 

In  Betty's  sophomore  year  the  Belden  had 
a  masquerade  ball,  under  the  direction  of 
Mary  Brooks  and  the  girl  from  Bohemia. 
The  Hilton  House  indulged  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned country  Hallowe'en,  with  a  spelling 
match,  dancing  to  "  Roger  de  Coverley  "  and 
"  Money  Musk,"  apple-bobbing  and  all  the 
other  traditional  methods  of  finding  out  about 
your  lover  on  All  Saints'  Eve.  The  Westcott 
gave  a  "  spook  "  party,  one  of  the  other  houses 
a  play,  still  another  a  goblin  dance,  to  which 


SOPHOMORE  51 

everybody  carried  jack-o'-lanterns,  and  the 
rest  celebrated  the  holiday  in  other  character- 
istic and  amusing  ways.  The  campus  re- 
sembled a  cross  between  the  midway  at  a 
World's  Fair  and  the  grand  finale  of  a  comic 
opera ;  for  ghosts  consorted  there  with  ballet 
dancers  and  Egyptian  princesses,  spooks  and 
goblins  linked  arms  with  pirates  in  top-boots 
and  rosy  farmers'  daughters  in  calico,  and 
nuns  and  Puritan  maidens  chatted  familiarly 
with  villainous  and  fascinating  gentlemen,  who 
twirled  black  mustaches  and  threatened  to  kiss 
them. 

By  nine  o'clock  everybody  had  seen  every- 
body else,  and  congratulations  for  successful 
costumes,  clever  acting,  and  thrilling  ghost 
stories  were  nearly  all  distributed.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  evening  there  were  a  good 
many  small  gatherings,  met  to  talk  over  the 
fun  in  detail  and  enjoy  the  numerous 
"  spreads  "  that  had  been  sent  on  from  home, 
— for  the  college  girl's  family  becomes  almost 
as  expert  in  detecting  a  festival  afar  off  as  is 
the  girl  herself. 

Nan  never  let  the  Wales  household  forget 
its  duty  in  such  matters,  and  a  merry  party 


52         BErrr  WALES 

was  assembled  in  Betty's  room  to  eat  the  salad, 
sandwiches,  jelly,  olives,  cake,  candy,  nuts, 
and  fruit  that  her  mother  had  provided. 

"  How  time  flies,"  observed  Mary  Brooks 
sagely,  helping  herself  to  another  sandwich. 
'*  I  suppose  you  gay  young  sophomores  don't 
realize  it,  but  it's  almost  Christmas  time." 

"  And  after  Christmas,  midyears,"  wailed  a 
freshman  from  her  corner. 

"  And  after  midyears  what  ? 

"  t  To  be  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question,'  " 

quoted  Katherine  Kittredge  loudly. 

"  But  for  sophomores  who  survive  the  mid- 
years," went  on  Mary,  "  the  next  thing  of  im- 
portance is  the  society  elections." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Betty  eagerly.  "  We  can 
get  into  your  wonderful  societies  after  mid- 
years, if  we're  brainy  enough.  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  them." 

"  Then  I'll  wager  you're  about  the  only 
sophomore  who  hasn't  thought  of  them  occa- 
sionally this  fall,"  announced  Mary.  "  And 
now  I'm  ready  for  some  candy." 

"  Tell  us  how  to  go  to  work  to  get  into  those 


SOPHOMORE  53 

societies,  can't  you  ? "  asked  Bob  from  her 
place  beside  the  salad  bowl. 

"  Work  hard  and  write  themes,"  said  Mary 
briefly,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

Betty  thought  no  more  about  Mary's  remark 
then,  but  when  she  and  Helen  were  alone  it 
came  back  to  her. 

"  I  suppose  some  girls  do  think  about  the 
societies  a  lot,  and  plan  and  hope  to  get  in," 
she  said. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  returned  Helen.  "  I  shan't 
have  to.  I  am  perfectly  safe  to  stay  out." 

"  Oh,  so  am  I,  as  far  as  that  goes,"  said 
Betty  carelessly. 

Helen,  watching  her  closely,  wondered  how 
any  popular  girl  could  be  as  unconscious  as 
Betty  seemed.  She  had  overheard  a  Belden 
House  senior  telling  Mary  Brooks  that  Betty 
Wales  was  sure  to  go  into  a  society  the  minute 
she  became  eligible.  Helen  opened  her  mouth 
to  convey  this  information  to  Betty,  but 
stopped  just  in  time. 

"  For  she's  not  unhappy  about  it,"  thought 
Helen,  "  and  it  would  be  dreadful  if  they 
should  be  mistaken.  But  they  can't  be,"  con- 
cluded Helen  loyally,  watching  Betty's  face  as 


54         BErrr  WALES 

she  read  a  note  that  her  mother  had  tucked  in 
among  the  nuts.  Most  pretty  girls  might  be 
stupid,  but  the  best  of  everything  was  none 
too  good  for  Betty  Wales,  so  thought  her 
roommate. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ELEANOR    WATSON,    AUTHORESS 

ELEANOR  WATSON  leaned  back  in  her  Morris 
chair,  her  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  opposite 
wall,  her  forehead  knit  in  deep  thought. 
"  Somehow  there  isn't  enough  of  me  to  go 
round,"  she  reflected.  "  I  don't  see  why, — the 
other  girls,  no  quicker  or  brighter  than  I,  seem 
to  get  on  all  right.  I  wonder  why  I  can't.  I 
can't  give  up  everything  in  the  way  of  recre- 
ation." 

It  was  easy  enough  for  an  outsider  to  ana- 
lyze her  difficulty.  Never  before  had  Eleanor 
tried  to  "  go  round,"  as  she  put  it.  She  had 
always  done  what  she  pleased,  and  let  alone 
the  things  that  did  not  appeal  to  her.  Now 
she  had  suddenly  assumed  responsibilities. 
She  really  wanted  to  do  her  college  work,  all 
of  it,  as  it  deserved  to  be  done,  and  to  do  it 
honestly,  without  resort  to  any  of  the  various 
methods  of  deception  that  she  had  employed 
almost  unconsciously  hitherto.  She  wanted 
to  make  life  pleasanter  for  Dora  Carlson.  She 

55 


56          BErrr 

wanted  to  write  the  long,  newsy  letters  to  Jim 
and  to  Judge  Watson ;  letters  that  brought 
characteristic  replies,  confidential  from  Jim, 
genially  humorous  from  her  father,  but  both 
equally  appreciative  and  as  different  as  possi- 
ble from  their  cold,  formal  notes  of  the  year 
before.  On  the  other  hand,  she  wanted,  both 
for  selfish  and  unselfish  reasons,  to  enter  into 
the  social  life  of  the  college.  She  had  not  lost 
her  worldly  ambitions  in  one  summer ;  and 
she  had  not  gained,  at  a  bound,  the  concentra- 
tion of  mind  that  enabled  other  girls  to  get 
through  an  amazing  amount  of  work  and  fun 
with  perfect  ease.  She  knew  infinitely  less  of 
the  value  of  time  than  Betty  Wales ;  she  had 
less  sense  of  proportion  than  Helen  Adams ; 
and  she  was  intensely  eager  to  win  all  sorts  of 
honors. 

So  it  was  natural  that  she  should  stare  at 
the  wall  opposite  for  some  little  time  before 
she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  sitting  empty- 
handed,  thinking  about  her  troubles,  while  the 
morning  took  to  itself  wings,  was  not  the  best 
way  to  mend  matters.  And  when  she  did 
finally  come  back  to  earth,  it  was  only  to  give 
an  angry  little  exclamation,  pick  up  a  maga- 


SOPHOMORE  57 

zine  from  the  table  at  her  elbow,  and  go  to 
reading  it.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour, 
however,  she  tossed  it  aside,  and  sitting 
resolutely  down  at  her  desk,  wrote  diligently 
until  lunch  time. 

"Have  you  done  your  theme,  Eleanor?" 
asked  Alice  Waite,  overtaking  her  on  the  way 
down  to  the  dining-room. 

Eleanor  nodded  curtly.  "  Did  it  between 
twelve  and  one." 

"  Really  ? "  Alice's  brown  eyes  grew  big 
with  admiration.  "  Oh,  dear,  it  takes  me 
days  to  do  mine,  and  when  they're  done 
they're  nothing,  and  yours  are  just  fine.  I  do 
think  it's  queer " 

"  Nonsense,"  interrupted  Eleanor  crossly. 
"  You  don't  know  anything  about  my  themes. 
You  never  saw  one." 

"  Oh,  but  Betty  Wales  says "  began 

Alice  eagerly. 

"  Now  what  does  Betty  Wales  really  know 
about  it  either?"  inquired  Eleanor  a  trifle 
more  amiably. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Alice  help- 
lessly, "  but  I'm  sure  she's  right.  Is  your 
theme  a  story  ?  " 


58          BErrr  WALES 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  and  is  it  about  a  man  and  a  girl  7 
Betty  says  your  man-and-girl  stories  are  great, 
specially  the  love  parts.  Now  I  could  no  more 
write  love-making " 

"  Well,  there's  no  love-making  in  this  one," 
interrupted  Eleanor  crossly,  "  and  it's  not 
great  at  all.  It's  so  poor  that  I'm  not  even 
sure  I  shall  hand  it  in.  So  please  don't  say 
any  more  about  it." 

All  through  luncheon  Eleanor  sat  silent, 
wearing  the  absent,  harassed  expression  which 
meant  that  she  was  deciding  something — some- 
thing about  which  her  better  and  her  worse 
selves  disagreed. 

Just  as  she  was  leaving  the  lunch-table, 
Christy  Mason  rushed  up  to  her  in  great 
excitement. 

"  Now,  Eleanor,"  she  began,  "  don't  say  you 
can't  come,  for  we  simply  won't  let  you  off. 
It's  a  construction  car  ride.  Meet  at  the  Main 
Street  corner  at  four — right  after  Lab.,  if  you 
have  it.  It's  positively  the  last  ride  of  the 
season  and  an  awfully  jolly  crowd's  going, — 
Betty  and  Jean  and  Kate  Denise  and  the  three 
B's,  and  Katherine  Kittredge  and  Nita  Reese, 


SOPHOMORE  59 

• — oh,  the  whole  sophomore  push,  you  know. 
Now,  say  you'll  come,  and  give  me  twenty 
cents  for  the  supper." 

"  Give  me  time  to  breathe,"  laughed  Elea- 
nor. "  Now  seriously,  Christy,  why  should  I 
go  off  on  one  of  those  dirty,  hard,  bump- 
ing flat-cars,  on  a  freezing  night  in  Novem- 
ber  " 

"  It's  moonlight,"  interrupted  Christy,  "  and 
we  must  have  your  guitar  to  help  with  the 
singing." 

"  We  shall  nickname  you  dig,  if  you  don't 
come,"  declared  Bob,  who  had  danced  up  in 
the  midst  of  the  colloquy.  "  Now,  how  will 
you  like  that— Dig  Watson  ?  " 

Eleanor  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  Don't 
be  ironical,"  she  said.  "  I'll  come.  I  hadn't 
any  intention  of  not  coming.  I  only  wanted 
to  know  why  you  will  persist  in  lugging  those 
horrid  flat-cars  into  all  your  fun." 

"  Stunty,"  explained  Christy. 

"  Different,"  added  Bob. 

"  But  since  you're  coming,  we  can  argue 
about  it  to-night,"  concluded  Christy,  decid- 
edly. "  What  I  want  now  is  your  twenty 
cents." 


60  BETTY    WALES 

It  was  half  past  three  when  Eleanor  started 
over  to  the  main  building  to  deposit  her 
theme  in  one  of  the  tin  boxes  which  Miss 
Raymond  and  her  assistants  opened  at  speci- 
fied hours  on  specified  days, — not,  as  Mary 
Brooks  explained,  because  they  wanted  what 
was  in  the  boxes,  but  because  they  wished  to 
discover  what  was  not  in  them,  in  order  that 
they  might  make  life  a  burden  for  those 
whose  themes  were  late. 

Just  ahead  of  Eleanor  a  little  freshman 
walked  up  to  the  box  and  slipped  in  a 
stamped  envelope. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  this  isn't  a  mail-box," 
explained  Eleanor. 

"  Why,  it  says  '  Collections  made  at  6  P.  M. 
Tuesdays  and  Thursdays,'  "  gasped  the  little 
freshman.  Then  she  glanced  at  the  heading, 
"  '  Themes  of  Second  Class,  L  to  Z.'  Oh,  I 
thought  of  course  that  said  United  States 
Mail." 

"  Evidently  you're  fortunate  enough  not  to 
have  elected  themes.  When  you  do,  remem- 
ber that  the  collections  are  as  prompt  as  the 
postman's,"  said  Eleanor.  "  Come  back  at 
six,  and  you  can  get  out  your  letter." 


SOPHOMORE  61 

But  the  freshman,  blushing  as  red  as  her 
scarlet  cap,  had  vanished  down  the  hall. 

Then,  instead  of  dropping  in  her  theme  and 
hurrying  home,  as  she  had  intended,  to  get 
into  an  old  skirt  and  a  heavy  shirt-waist  be- 
fore four  o'clock,  Eleanor  sat  down  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  broad  stairway,  as  if  she  had 
decided  to  wait  there  until  six  o'clock  and 
rescue  the  freshman's  letter  herself.  Five — 
ten — fifteen  minutes,  she  sat  there.  Girl  after 
girl  came  through  the  hall  to  deposit  themes, 
or  consult  the  bulletin  boards.  Among  them 
were  one  or  two  of  the  "  sophomore  push,"  as 
Christy  had  called  them. 

"  Aren't  you  a  lady  of  leisure,  though," 
called  Christy,  dashing  through  the  hall  at 
quarter  to  four.  "  I  have  to  go  ahead  and 
see  about  the  ice  cream.  Don't  you  be  late, 
Eleanor." 

Eleanor  looked  after  her  wistfully ;  Christy 
was  one  of  the  girls  who  always  "  went  round." 
Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  got  up,  and 
dropped  her  theme  into  the  box. 

"  What's  the  odds,  anyhow  ?  "  she  muttered, 
as  it  fell  with  a  soft  little  swish  on  the  top  of 
the  pile  inside.  "  It's  too  late  to  write  an- 


62 

other  now."  And  she  hurried  after  Christy 
down  the  hill. 

The  construction  car  ride  was  a  great  suc- 
cess. The  night  was  decidedly  balmy  for 
November,  and  the  moon  rode,  full  and  glori- 
ous, in  a  cloudless  sky.  If  the  car  bottom 
made  a  hard  seat,  the  passengers'  spirits  were 
elastic  enough  to  endure  all  the  bumps  and 
jolts  with  equanimity.  Hatless,  though  bun- 
dled in  ulsters  and  sweaters,  they  laughed  and 
sang  and  shouted  in  the  indefatigably  light- 
hearted  fashion  that  is  characteristic  only  of 
babies  and  collegians  off  on  a  frolic. 

Eleanor's  story  of  the  absent-minded  fresh- 
man was  the  hit  of  the  evening,  and  the 
tinkle  of  her  guitar  added  the  crowning  touch 
to  the  festivity  of  the  occasion.  As  they 
rounded  the  last  corner  on  the  homeward 
stretch,  she  turned  to  Betty  Wales,  her  eyes 
shining  softly  and  her  hair  blown  into  dis- 
tracting waves  under  her  fluffy  white  tarn. 

"  It  is  fun,  Betty,"  she  said.  "  Flat-car  and 
all, — though  why  it  should  be,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  see,  and  last  year  it  wasn't — for  me." 

Then  her  face  grew  suddenly  sombre,  and 
she  settled  back  in  her  corner,  dropping  into 


SOPHOMORE  63 

a  moody  silence  that  lasted  until  the  car  had 
dumped  its  merry  load,  and  the  "  sophomore 
push  "  was  making  its  way  in  noisy  twos  and 
threes  up  the  hill  to  the  campus. 

"  Come  over  for  a  minute,  can't  you, 
Eleanor?"  asked  Betty,  when  they  reached 
the  Belden  House  gate. 

"  Why,  yes — no,  I  can't,  either.  I'm  sorry," 
said  Eleanor,  and  was  starting  across  the 
grass  toward  home,  when  Jean  Eastman  over- 
took her. 

"  Come  over  to  the  Westcott  and  warm  up 
with  coffee,"  said  Jean. 

Eleanor  repeated  her  refusal. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  demanded  Jean  with  her  us- 
ual directness. 

"  Because  I  want  to  see  Miss  Raymond  a 
minute,"  returned  Eleanor,  coolly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  do  that  to-night,"  said 
Jean.  "  She's  entertaining  Professor  Morris 
of  New  York.  I  don't  suppose  you  care  to 
break  into  that,  do  you  ?  She's  probably  hav- 
ing a  select  party  of  faculty  stars  in  for  a  chaf- 
ing-dish supper." 

'*'  Oh,  dear  !  "  There  was  genuine  distress  in 
Eleanor's  voice.  "  Then  I'm  going  home, 


64          BErrr  WALES 

Jean.  You're  perfectly  certain  that  she'll  be 
engaged?  You're  sure  this  is  the  night  he 
was  coming?  " 

Having  duly  assured  Eleanor  that  Professor 
Morris  and  Miss  Raymond  had  taken  lunch 
at  the  Westcott  House  and  that  Miss  Mills 
had  been  invited  out  to  dinner  with  them, 
Jean  went  home  to  inform  her  roommate  that 
Eleanor  Watson  was  in  more  trouble  over  her 
English  work — that  she  was  rushing  around 
the  campus  at  nine  in  the  evening,  trying  to 
find  Miss  Raymond. 

Eleanor,  left  to  herself  at  last,  turned  and 
went  slowly  back  to  the  Belden  House. 

Betty  looked  up  in  astonishment  when  she 
appeared  in  the  door.  "  How'd  you  happen 
to  change  your  mind  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Fate  was  against  me,"  said  Eleanor 
shortly.  "  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Raymond 
about  a  theme,  but  she's  busy." 

"  Won't  morning  do  ?  "  asked  Betty,  sympa- 
thetically. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  only  I  wanted  to  have 
it  off  my  hands." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  agreed  Betty.  "  She's 
none  too  agreeable  about  late  themes." 


SOPHOMORE  65 

"  It's  not  a  late  theme.  I  want  to  get  back 
the  one  I  handed  in  to-day.  It  ought  never 
to  have  gone  in." 

Betty  stared  at  Eleanor  for  a  moment 
in  speechless  amazement,  then  she  danced 
across  the  room  and  pulling  Eleanor  after  her, 
tumbled  back  among  the  couch  cushions. 
"  Oh,  Eleanor,  you  are  the  funniest  thing," 
she  said.  "  Last  year  you  didn't  care  about 
anything,  and  now  I  believe  you're  a  worse 
fusser  than  Helen  Chase  Adams.  The  idea  of 
worrying  over  a  theme  that  is  done  and  copied 
and  in  on  time  1  Come  and  tell  Madeline 
Ayres.  She'll  appreciate  the  joke,  and  she'll 
give  us  some  of  her  lovely  sweet  chocolate  that 
her  cousins  sent  her  from  Paris." 

But  Eleanor  hung  back.  "  Please  don't  say 
anything  about  it  to  Miss  Ayres.  I'd  really 
rather  you  didn't.  It  may  be  a  joke  to  you, 
but  it's  a  serious  matter  to  me,  Betty." 

So  more  people  than  Eleanor  were  surprised 
the  next  afternoon  to  find  that  the  clever  story 
which  Miss  Raymond  read  with  great  gusto  to 
her  prize  theme  class,  and  commented  upon  as 
11  extraordinary  work  for  an  undergraduate," 
should  prove  to  be  Eleanor  Watson's. 


66          BErrr  WALES 

As  early  in  the  morning  as  she  dared 
Eleanor  had  gone  over  to  get  back  her  theme 
"  that  should  never  have  gone  in,"  and  to  ask 
permission  to  try  again.  But  Miss  Raymond 
had  been  up  betimes,  working  over  her  new 
batch  of  papers,  and  she  met  Eleanor's  apolo- 
gies with  amused  approval  of  sophomores,  who, 
contrary  to  the  popular  tradition  about  their 
cock-sureness,  were  inclined  to  underestimate 
their  abilities,  and  imagine,  like  freshmen  before 
midyears,  that  their  work  was  below  grade. 
So  there  was  nothing  for  Eleanor  to  do  but 
submit  gracefully  and  leave  the  theme.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  to  caution  Miss  Raymond 
against  reading  it  to  her  class. 

In  spite  of  hard  struggles  and  little  disap- 
pointments like  Helen  Adams's,  it  really  takes 
very  little  to  make  a  college  reputation.  One 
brilliant  recitation  may  turn  an  unassuming 
student  into  a  "  prod."  ;  and  on  the  strength 
of  one  clever  bit  of  writing  another  is  given 
the  title  of  "  genius."  This  last  distinction 
was  at  once  bestowed  on  Eleanor.  She  was 
showered  with  congratulations  and  compli- 
ments. Her  old  school  friends  like  Lilian 
Day  and  Jean  Eastman  hastened  to  declare 


SOPHOMORE  67 

that  they  had  always  known  Eleanor  Watson 
could  write.  Solid,  dependable  students  like 
Dorothy  King  and  Marion  Lawrence  regarded 
her  with  new  respect ;  awed  little  freshmen 
pointed  her  out  to  one  another  as  "  that  aw- 
fully pretty  Miss  Watson,  who  is  a  perfect 
star  in  themes,  you  know "  ;  and  her  own 
class,  who  had  cordially  disliked  her  the  year 
before,  and  not  known  what  to  think  of  her 
recent  friendliness,  immediately  prepared  to 
make  a  class  heroine  of  her  and  lauded  her 
performance  to  the  skies. 

But  Eleanor  would  have  none  of  all  this 
"  pleasant  fuss,"  as  Mary  Brooks  called  it. 
Suddenly  and  most  inexplicably  she  reverted 
to  her  sarcastic,  ungracious  manner  of  the 
year  before.  She  either  ignored  the  pretty 
speeches  that  people  made  to  her,  or  received 
them  with  a  stare  and  a  haughty  "  I  really 
don't  know  what  you  mean,"  which  fairly 
frightened  her  admirers  into  silence. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Mary  Brooks  to  Betty,  after 
having  received  a  particularly  scathing  retort, 
"  that  hereafter  Miss  Raymond  can  be  in- 
duced not  to  approve  of  the  lady  Eleanor's 
themes.  I've  heard  that  prosperity  turns 


68          BErrr 

people's  heads,  but  I  never  knew  it  made 
them  into  bears.  She's  actually  more  un- 
pleasant than  she  was  before  she  reformed. 
And  the  moral  of  that  is,  don't  reform,"  added 
Mary  sententiously. 

Betty  Wales  was  completely  mystified  and 
bitterly  disappointed  by  Eleanor's  strange  be- 
havior. 

"  Eleanor  dear,"  she  ventured  timidly, 
"  don't  be  so  queer  and — and  disagreeable 
about  your  theme.  Why,  you  even  hurt  my 
feelings  when  I  spoke  to  you  about  it,  and  the 
other  girls  think  it's  awfully  funny  that  you 
shouldn't  be  pleased,  and  like  to  have  them 
congratulate  you.  The  theme  must  have 
been  good,  you  see.  Miss  Raymond  knows, 
and  she  liked  it  ever  so  much.  She  told  the 
class  about  your  rushing  over  to  get  it  that 
morning,  and  she  thought  it  was  such  a  good 
joke.  Do  cheer  up,  Eleanor.  Why,  I  should 
be  so  proud  if  I  were  you  !  " 

Eleanor  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she 
smiled  suddenly,  her  flashing,  radiant  smile. 
"  Well,  I'll  try  to  be  pleasant,  Betty,  if  you 
want  me  to,"  she  said.  "  There's  no  use  cry- 
ing over  spilt  milk.  I  am  queer — you  know 


SOPHOMORE  69 

that — but  I  hadn't  meant  to  hurt  people's 
feelings.  You're  going  to  the  library,  aren't 
you?  Well,  Dora  Carlson's  up  there.  Tell 
her,  please,  that  I  was  tired  when  she  came  in 
just  now — that  I  didn't  intend  to  be  disagree- 
able, and  that  I  love  her  just  the  same.  Will 
you?" 

So  when,  just  after  Betty  had  left,  Dorothy 
King  came  in  and  plunged  at  once  into  the 
familiar  "  I  want  to  congratulate  you  on  that 
story,  Miss  Watson,"  Eleanor  smiled  pleasantly 
and  murmured,  "  It's  nothing, — just  a  stupid 
little  tale,"  in  conventional  college  fashion. 

"  And  of  course,"  went  on  Dorothy  briskly, 
"  we  want  it  for  the  *  Argus.'  I'm  not  a 
literary  editor  myself, — just  business  manager, 
— but  Frances  West  is  so  busy  that  she  asked 
me  to  stop  in  and  see  you  on  my  way  to  a 
meeting  of  the  Editorial  board.  Frances  is 
the  editor-in-chief,  you  know." 

A  dull  red  flush  spread  itself  over  Eleanor's 
pale  face.  "  I'm  sorry,  Miss  King,  very  sorry, 
but — but — I  can't  let  the  '  Argus '  use  my 
story." 

Dorothy  stared.  "  We  can't  have  it  ?  Why 
—well,  of  course  it's  very  good.  Were  you 


70          BErrr  WALES 

going  to  try  to  sell  it  to  a  regular  maga* 
zine?" 

Eleanor  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said 
with  an  odd  little  laugh.  "  No,  I'm  not  going 
to  try  to  sell  it." 

Dorothy  looked  puzzled.  "  Most  people  are 
very  glad  to  get  into  the  'Argus.'  We  don't 
often  have  to  ask  twice  for  contributions. 
And  we  want  this  very,  very  much.  Miss 
Raymond  likes  it  so  well  and  all.  Can't  I 
persuade  you  to  change  your  mind?  " 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor  curtly. 

In  spite  of  her  poise  and  her  apparently  even 
temper,  Dorothy  King  was  a  rather  spoiled 
young  person,  used  to  having  her  own  way 
and  irritable  when  other  people  insisted,  with- 
out reason,  upon  having  theirs.  She  disliked 
Eleanor  Watson,  and  now  Eleanor's  manner 
nettled  her  beyond  endurance.  She  rose  sud- 
denly. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Miss  Watson,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  really  don't  understand  why  you 
should  raise  such  a  tempest  in  a  teapot  over 
a  theme.  You  make  me  quite  curious  to  see 
it,  I  assure  you.  It  must  be  a  very  strange 
piece  of  work." 


SOPHOMORE  71 

Eleanor's  face  went  white  instantly.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Miss  King.  I  didn't  mean 
to  be  either  rude  or  disobliging  or  even — 
queer.  Here  is  the  story,  and  if  the  '  Argus  ' 
can  really  use  it,  I  shall  be  delighted,  of 
course." 

On  the  campus  Dorothy  met  Betty  Wales. 
"  I've  got  it,"  she  cried,  waving  the  theme 
aloft  in  triumph.  "  She  didn't  want  to  give 
it  to  me  at  first,  and  I  lost  my  temper — she  is 
so  trying — but  later  she  was  lovely,  and  I 
apologized,  and  now  we're  fast  friends." 

Betty  was  on  her  way  to  gym,  but  she  stole 
five  minutes  in  which  to  run  up  and  see 
Eleanor. 

"  Hurrah  for  you  I "  she  cried.  "  I  saw 
Dorothy  and  she  told  me  the  great  news. 
Eleanor,  you'll  be  on  the  Argus  board  your- 
self, if  you're  not  careful." 

"  Would  you  mind  not  staying  now,  Betty  ?  " 
asked  Eleanor,  who  was  lying  buried  among 
her  pillows.  "  I  have  a  dreadful  headache, 
and  talking  makes  it  worse." 


CHAPTER  V 

POINTS   OF   VIEW 

DURING  the  first  part  of  their  year  at  the 
Chapin  house  Betty  and  her  friends  had  taken 
very  little  interest  in  the  Harding  Aid  Society. 
It  had  been  to  them  only  a  name,  about  whicb 
Mary  Brooks,  who  was  a  member  of  the  aid 
committee  of  her  class,  talked  glibly,  and  in 
behalf  of  which  she  exacted  onerous  contri- 
butions, whenever  the  spirit  moved  her.  But 
at  the  time  of  the  valentine  episode,  when 
Emily  Davis  and  her  two  friends  suddenly 
appeared  upon  Betty's  horizon,  Betty  and 
Katherine  realized  all  at  once  what  the  Aid 
Society  must  mean  to  some  of  their  class- 
mates. During  the  rest  of  the  year  they  sec- 
onded Mary's  efforts  warmly,  and  the  whole 
house  got  interested  and  plied  Mary  with 
questions  about  the  work  of  the  society,  until, 
in  sheer  desperation,  she  admitted  that  she 
knew  very  little  about  it,  and  set  herself  to 
get  some  definite  information.  The  head  of 
the  committee,  pleased  with  Mary's  sudden 


SOPHOMORE  73 

enthusiasm,  sent  her  to  one  of  the  faculty 
trustees,  and  for  a  few  days  Mary,  who  was 
entirely  a  creature  of  impulse,  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  splendid  work  of  the  Hard- 
ing Aid  Society  in  helping  the  poorer  mem- 
bers of  the  college  to  meet  their  expenses. 

It  was  perfectly  marvelous  how  little  some 
girls  got  along  on.  To  many  of  them  a  loan 
of  twenty-five  dollars  actually  meant  the  dif- 
ference between  going  home  and  staying  in 
college  a  year  longer. 

"  Now  fancy  that ! "  interpolated  Mary. 
"  It  would  mean  just  about  the  price  of  a  new 
hat  to  me." 

And  each  dollar  helped  an  endless  chain  of 
girls ;  for  the  society  made  loans,  not  gifts ; 
and  the  girls  always  paid  up  the  moment  they 
could  get  the  money  together. 

"  One  girl  paid  back  two  hundred  dollars 
out  of  a  five  hundred  dollar  salary  that  she  got 
for  teaching,  the  year  after  she  graduated. 
Imagine  that  if  you  can  !  "  said  Mary. 

The  Aid  Society  managed-  the  bulletin 
boards  in  the  gymnasium  basement.  It  ran 
an  employment  agency,  a  blue-print  shop,  and 
a  second-hand  book-store.  It  was  astonish- 


74         BErrr  WALES 

ing,  said  Mary,  with  a  mysterious  shake  of 
her  head,  how  many  splendid  girls — the  very 
finest  at  Harding — the  society  was  helping. 
Confidentially,  she  whispered  to  the  valentine 
coterie  that  Emily  Davis  and  her  two  friends 
had  just  been  placed  on  the  list  of  beneficia- 
ries. Her  eloquence  extorted  a  ten  dollar  con- 
tribution from  Roberta,  and  smaller  amounts 
from  the  rest  of  the  girls.  But  then  came 
spring  term,  and  the  Harding  Aid  Society  was 
forgotten  for  golf,  bicycling,  the  bird  club,  and 
the  other  absorbing  joys  of  the  season. 

But  it  was  only  natural  that  Mary,  casting 
about  for  a  "  Cause,"  in  behalf  of  which  to 
exercise  her  dramatic  talent,  should  remember 
the  Aid  Society,  and  the  effort  it  was  making 
to  complete  its  ten-thousand-dollar  loan  fund 
before  Christmas.  Mary  was  no  longer  on  the 
aid  committee,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  help  complete  the  fund,  for  which 
everybody, — alumnse,  friends  of  the  college, 
and  undergraduates, — were  expected  to  work. 
Mary  was  a  born  entertainer,  never  so  happy 
as  when  she  was  getting  up  what  in  college- 
girl  parlance  is  called  a  "  show."  She  had 
discovered  how  to  utilize  her  talent  at  Hard- 


SOPHOMORE  75 

ing,  at  the  time  of  the  Sherlock  Holmes 
dramatization.  It  had  lain  dormant  again 
until  the  Hallowe'en  party  brought  it  once 
more  to  light,  and  the  election  parade  kindled 
it  into  fresh  vigor. 

In  all  her  enterprises  Mary  found  a  kin- 
dred spirit  in  Madeline  Ayres.  Madeline  had 
taken  part  in  amateur  theatricals  ever  since 
she  could  talk. 

"  And  I've  always  been  wild  to  do  men's 
parts,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  I  can  up  here." 

"  Of  course  you  can,"  returned  Mary, 
promptly.  "  Do  you  know  any  actors  or  ac- 
tresses ?  " 

"  Oh,  two  or  three,"  answered  Madeline, 
carelessly.  "  Or  at  least  father  does — he  knows 
everybody  that's  interesting — and  I've  talked 
to  them.  And  once  I  *  suped.'  It  was  a  week 
when  I'd  been  to  the  theatre  three  times,  and 
I  didn't  want  to  ask  father  for  any  more 
money.  So  I  went  to  the  manager  and  got 
a  chance  to  be  in  the  mob — that's  the  crowd 
that  don't  have  speaking  parts,  you  know. 
And  the  people  who'd  promised  to  take  me 
home  forgot  and  went  off  to  supper  without 
me,  and  the  leading  lady  heard  about  it  and 


76 

took  me  home  in  her  carriage.  So  motbej 
asked  her  to  tea,  and  she  came,  and  was  a 
dear,  though  she  couldn't  act  at  all.  I  forget 
her  name.  But  the  family  wouldn't  let  me 
go  on  again.  They  said  it  wouldn't  do,  even 
in  Bohemia." 

"  Goodness !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  excitedly. 
"  Wasn't  that  a  lark  !  Madeline,  do  let's  get 
up  a  play." 

"But  how  can  we?"  objected  Madeline, 
lazily.  "  Hallowe'en  is  over,  there  aren't  any 
more  elections  or  holidays  coming,  and  we're 
not  either  of  us  on  the  committee  for  house 
plays.  We  can't  just  walk  in  and  offer  our 
services,  can  we  ?  " 

Mary  stared  at  her  absently.  "  That's  so," 
she  said.  "  That's  the  bother  of  being  on  the 
campus,  where  they  have  committees  for  every- 
thing. Oh,  dear  !  Isn't  there  something  we 
can  have  a  play  for  ?  "  Then  her  face  lighted 
suddenly.  "  The  Harding  Aid !  The  very 
thing  !  "  she  shrieked,  and  seizing  the  stately 
Madeline  around  the  waist,  she  twirled  her 
violently  across  the  room. 

"  I  haven't  the  ghost  of  an  idea  what  you 
are  talking  about,"  said  Madeline,  gravely, 


SOPHOMORE  77 

when  she  had  at  last  succeeded  in  disentan- 
gling herself  from  Mary's  bearish  embraces. 
"  But  I'm  with  you,  anyway.  What  shall  it 
be?" 

"  Why,  a— a  play." 

"  Don't  you  like  vaudeville  shows  better  ?  " 
inquired  Madeline,  "  and  circuses,  and  nice 
little  stunts?  Girls  can  do  that  sort  of  thing 
a  lot  better  than  they  can  act  regular  plays. 
And  besides  it  brings  in  a  bigger  cast  and 
takes  fewer  bothering  old  rehearsals." 

This  time  Mary  danced  a  jig  all  by  herself. 

"  Come  over  to  Marion  Lawrence's,"  she 
commanded,  breathlessly.  "  She's  chairman 
of  the  big  Loan  Fund  Committee.  She'll 
make  us  two  a  special  entertainment  com- 
mittee, and  tell  the  rest  to  let  us  go  ahead 
and  do  what  we  please." 

But  Madeline  shook  her  head.  "  I  loathe 
committees,"  she  explained.  "  You  go  along 
and  see  Miss  Lawrence  and  be  on  your  com- 
mittee, if  you  like.  And  when  you  want 
some  help  with  the  stunts  or  the  costumes — 
I  have  a  lot  of  drapery  and  jewelry  and  such 
stuff — why,  come  and  tell  me,  and  I'll  do 
what  I  can." 


78  BETTT   WALES 

And  no  amount  of  persuasion  on  the  part 
of  Mary,  Marion  Lawrence,  or  the  Loan  Fund 
Committee  en  masse,  could  induce  Madeline 
to  change  her  mind.  "  Why,  I  can't  be  on  a 
committee,"  she  said.  "  I  get  around  to  recita- 
tions and  meals  and  class  meetings,  and  that's 
all  I  can  possibly  manage.  You  don't  realize 
that  I'd  never  had  to  be  on  time  for  anything 
in  all  my  life  till  I  came  here,  except  for 
trains  sometimes, — and  you  can  generally 
count  on  their  being  a  little  late.  No,  I  can't 
and  won't  come  to  committee  meetings  and 
be  bored.  But  all  that  I  have  is  yours,"  and 
Madeline  tossed  a  long  and  beautifully  curled 
mustache  at  Mary,  and  a  roll  of  Persian  silk 
at  Marion.  "  For  the  circus  barker,"  she  ex- 
plained, "and  the  Indian  juggler's  turban. 
I'll  make  the  turban,  if  the  juggler  doesn't 
know  how.  They're  apt  to  come  apart,  if  you 
don't  get  the  right  twist.  And  I'll  see  about 
that  little  show  of  my  own,  if  you  really  think 
it's  worth  having." 

So,  though  her  name  did  not  appear  on  the 
list  of  the  committee  or  on  the  posters,  it  was 
largely  due  to  Madeline  Ayres  that  the  Hard- 
ing Aid *'  Show  "  was  such  a  tremendous  success. 


SOPHOMORE  79 

"  The  way  to  get  up  a  good  thing,"  she  de- 
clared, "is  to  let  each  person  see  to  her  own 
stunt.  Then  it's  no  trouble  to  any  one  else. 
And  you'd  better  have  the  show  next  week, 
before  we  all  get  bored  to  death  with  the 
idea." 

These  theories  were  exactly  in  accordance 
with  Harding  sentiment,  so  next  week  the 
"  Show "  was, — in  the  gymnasium,  for  it 
rapidly  outgrew  the  Belden  House  parlors, 
where  Mary  and  Madeline  had  at  first  thought 
of  holding  it.  It  was  amazing  how  much 
talent  Madeline  and  the  committee,  between 
them,  managed  to  unearth.  The  little  dress- 
ing-rooms at  the  ends  of  the  big  hall  had  to 
be  called  into  requisition,  and  the  college 
doctor's  office,  and  Miss  Andrews'  room,  and 
even  the  swimming  tank  in  the  basement  (it 
leaked  and  so  the  water  had  all  been  drained 
off),  with  an  improvised  roof  made  by  pinning 
Bagdad  couch-covers  together.  All  along  the 
sides  of  the  gymnasium  hall  there  were  little 
curtained  booths,  while  the  four  corners  of  the 
gallery  were  turned  respectively  into  a  gypsy 
tent,  a  witch's  den,  the  grotesque  abode  of  an 
Egyptian  sorceress,  and  the  businesslike  offices 


8o         BErrr  WALES 

of  a  dapper  little  French  medium,  just  over 
from  Paris. 

You  could  have  your  fortune  told  in  which- 
ever corner  you  preferred, — or  in  all  four  if 
your  money  lasted.  Then  you  could  descend 
to  the  floor  below,  and  eat  and  drink  as  many 
concoctions  as  your  digestion  could  stand, 
sandwiching  between  your  "  rabbits,"  Japa- 
nese or  Russian  tea,  fudges,  chocolate,  and 
creamed  oysters,  visits  to  the  circus,  the 
menagerie,  the  vaudeville,  and  the  multitude 
of  side-shows.  "  Side-show,"  so  the  posters 
announced,  was  the  designation  of  ''  a  be- 
wildering variety  of  elegant  one-act  special- 
ties." Mary  Brooks  was  very  proud  of  that 
phrasing. 

Mary  herself  was  in  charge  of  the  men- 
agerie. "  Not  to  be  compared  for  a  single  in- 
stant with  the  animals  of  the  biggest  show  on 
earth,"  she  shouted  through  her  megaphone, 
accompanying  her  remarks  with  impressive 
waves  of  her  riding-whip. 

Then  the  white  baby  elephant  walked  forth 
from  its  lair.  It  was  composed  of  one  piece 
of  white  cheese-cloth  and  two  of  Mary's  most 
ardent  freshman  admirers.  There  was  a  cer- 


SOPHOMORE  81 

tain  wobbly  buoyancy  in  its  gait  and  a  jaunti- 
ness  about  its  waving  white  trunk, — which 
was  locked  at  the  end,  as  Mary  explained,  to 
guard  against  the  ferocious  assaults  of  this 
terrible  man-eater, — which  never  failed  to 
convulse  the  audience  and  put  them  in  the 
proper  humor  for  the  rest  of  the  performance. 
The  snake-charmer  exhibited  her  paper  pets. 
The  lion,  made  up  on  the  principle  of  the  one 
in  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  pawed  and 
roared  and  assured  timid  ladies  that  she  was 
not  a  lion  at  all,  but  only  that  far  more  awful 
creature,  a  Harding  senior.  And  finally  Mary 
opened  the  cage  containing  the  Happy  Family, 
and  there  filed  out  a  quartette  of  strange 
beasts  which  no  Harding  girl  in  the  audience 
failed  to  recognize  as  the  four  "  class  animals," 
—the  seniors'  red  lion,  the  juniors'  purple 
cow,  the  green  dragon  beloved  by  the  sopho- 
mores, and  the  freshmen's  yellow  chicken. 

"  They  dance,"  announced  Mary  in  beatific 
tones,  and  the  three  four-legged  creatures 
stood  on  their  hind  legs  and,  joining  paws  and 
wings  with  the  chicken,  went  through  a 
solemn  Alice-in-Wonderland-like  dance.  This 
was  always  terminated  abruptly  by  some 


82          BErrr 

animal  or  another's  being  overcome  by  mirth 
or  suffocation,  and  rushing  unceremoniously 
back  into  the  cage  to  recuperate.  When  the 
Happy  Family  was  again  reunited,  Mary  an- 
nounced that  they  could  also  sing,  and,  each 
in  a  different  key,  the  creatures  burst  forth 
with  the  "  Animal  Song,"  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  all  Harding  girls  : 

"  I  went  to  the  Animal  Fair  ;  the  great  Bed  Lion  w»a 

there. 

The  Purple  Cow  was  telling  how 
She'd  come  to  take  the  air. 
The  Dragon  he  looked  sick,  and  the  little  Yellow 

Chick, 

Looked  awfully  blue,  and  I  think,  don't  you, 
He'd  better  clear  out  quick — quick  !" 

At  the  end  of  this  ditty,  the  chick  hopped 
solemnly  forward,  gave  vent  to  a  most  realistic 
cluck,  scratched  vigorously  for  worms,  and  the 
Happy  Family  vanished  amid  an  uproar  of 
applause,  while  Mary  piloted  her  audience  into 
the  circus  proper,  managed  by  Emily  Davis. 

Here  Mile.  Zita,  beautiful  in  pink  tarlatan, 
— only  her  skirt  had  been  mislaid  at  the  last 
moment  and  she  had  been  compelled  to  sub- 


SOPHOMORE  83 

stitute  the  Westcott  House  lamp  shade, — 
Mile.  Zita  balanced  herself  on  a  chair,  and 
gave  so  vivid  an  imitation  of  wire-walking,  on 
solid  ground  all  the  time,  that  the  audience 
was  actually  fooled  into  holding  its  breath. 
Then  Bob's  pet  collie  did  an  act,  and  the  jug- 
gler juggled,  in  his  turban,  and  some  gym 
"  stars  "  did  turns  on  bars  and  swings.  And 
there  was  an  abundance  of  peanuts  and  pink 
lemonade,  and  a  clown  and  a  band ;  and 
Emily's  introductions  were  alone  well  worth 
the  price  of  admission. 

At  the  end  of  her  performance  Emily  stated 
that  this  circus,  being  modern  and  up-to-date 
in  all  respects,  had  substituted  for  the  conven- 
tional after-concert,  "  a  side-splitting  farce 
which  would  appeal  to  all  intelligent  and 
literary  persons  and  make  them  laugh  and 
cry  with  mirth."  So  everybody,  wishing  to 
appear  intelligent  and  literary,  went  in  to  see 
the  little  play  which  Madeline  Ayres  had 
written.  It  was  called  "  The  Animal  Fair," 
and  three  of  the  class  animals  appeared  in  it, 
But  the  mis-en-scene  was  an  artist's  studio, 
the  great  red  lion  was  a  red-faced  English 
dramatist,  the  chick  a  modest  young  lady 


84          BErrr  WALES 

novelist  attired  in  yellow  chiffon,  and  the 
dragon  a  Scotch  dialeot  writer.  The  repartee 
was  clever,  the  action  absurd,  and  there  were 
local  hits  in  plenty  for  those  unliterary  per- 
sons who  did  not  catch  the  essential  parody. 
Everybody  was  enthusiastic  over  it,  and  there 
were  frequent  calls  for  "  Author !  "  But  no- 
body responded. 

"  Who  wrote  it?  Oh,  some  of  the  commit- 
tee, I  suppose,"  said  the  doorkeeper,  carelessly. 
"  Perhaps  Marion  Lustig  helped — they  didn't 
tell  me.  No,  the  actors  don't  know  either. 
Did  you  give  me  fifty  cents  or  a  quarter  ? 
Please  don't  crowd  so.  You'll  all  get  in  in  a 
minute." 

Meanwhile  Madeline,  having  seen  through 
the  first  performance  of  her  farce,  in  her  ca- 
pacity of  stage  manager,  had  left  the  actors  to 
their  own  devices,  and  wandered  off  to  explore 
the  other  attractions.  Betty  met  her  at  the 
vaudeville. 

"  Come  and  get  some  fudge  and  see  the 
sleight-of-hand  stunts  in  the  swimming  tank/' 
whispered  Madeline.  "  These  songs  are  all  too 
much  alike." 

It  was  half-past  nine.     The  sleight-of-hand 


SOPHOMORE  85 

performance  was  being  given  for  the  tenth  and 
last  time  to  an  audience  that  packed  the  house. 
When  it  was  over  Betty,  who  had  been  a 
ticket-taker  at  the  circus  all  the  afternoon  and 
evening,  hurried  Madeline  back  to  see  how 
much  money  Emily  had  made. 

"  Fifty  dollars,"  said  Emily,  with  shining 
eyes.  "  Think  of  it !  I've  helped  to  make 
fifty  dollars  for  the  Aid  Society  that's  helping 
me  through  college." 

"  Splendid ! "  said  Betty,  too  tired  to  be 
very  enthusiastic  over  anything  that  night. 

Madeline  led  her  to  a  deserted  corner  of 
the  gallery,  and  they  sank  down  on  a  heap  of 
pillows  that  had  composed  the  gypsy  queen's 
throne. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  care  about  the 
money,"  said  Madeline,  when  they  were 
seated,  "but  I  don't  much.  I  care  because 
it's  all  been  so  funny  and  jolly  and  so  little 
trouble.  We  can  help  to  make  money  for 
good  causes  all  our  lives,  but  most  of  us  will 
forget  how  to  make  such  good  times  out  of  so 
little  fuss  and  feathers  when  we  leave  here." 

Betty  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  Made- 
line's philosophy  was  a  constant  source  of  in- 


86 

terest  and  amazement  to  all  her  friends.  She 
had  a  way  of  saying  the  things  that  they  had 
always  thought,  but  never  put  into  words. 

"  That's  so,"  she  agreed  at  last,  "  but  I  don't 
see  how  you  knew  it.  You  haven't  been  here 
a  term  yet.  How  do  you  find  out  so  much 
about  college  ?  " 

Madeline  laughed  merrily.  "  Oh,  I  came 
from  Bohemia,"  she  said,  "  and  the  reason  I 
like  it  up  here  is  because  this  place  isn't  so 
very  different  from  Bohemia.  Money  doesn't 
matter  here,  and  talent  does,  and  brains ;  and 
fun  is  easy  to  come  by,  and  trouble  easy  to 
get  away  from.  But  not  for  everybody,"  she 
ended  quickly. 

Eleanor  Watson,  still  in  her  gypsy  fortune- 
teller's costume,  was  hurrying  up  to  the  big 
pile  of  pillows,  six  devoted  freshmen  follow- 
ing close  at  her  heels. 

"  Hop  up,  girls,"  she  called  gaily  to  Betty 
and  Madeline.  "  My  faithful  slaves  have 
come  to  empty  the  throne  room." 

"  Aren't  you  tired,  Eleanor  ?  "  asked  Betty. 
"  You've  been  at  it  since  three  o'clock,  haven't 
you?  I  should  think  you'd  be  dead." 

Eleanor  shrugged  her  shoulders.     "  Oh,  I'm 


SOPHOMORE  87 

a  bit  tired,"  she  answered,  indifferently. 
"  But  I  couldn't  stop.  The  girls  simply 
wouldn't  let  me,  though  Blanche  Norton  was 
willing  to  take  my  place.  I  was  a  goose  to 
tell  them  that  I  could  read  palms.  Look  out 
for  that  white  satin  pillow,  Maudie.  Yes,  the 
yellow  one  is  mine,  but  I  can't  carry  it.  I'm 
too  done  up  to  carry  anything  but  myself." 

"  Now  that,"  said  Madeline,  decidedly,  as 
soon  as  Eleanor  was  out  of  hearing,  "  that  is 
all  wrong, — every  bit  of  it.  It's  not  the  fun 
she  wants.  She  doesn't  even  care  about  the 
money  for  the  good  cause.  It's  the  honor  and 
the  chance  to  show  off  her  own  cleverness 
that  she's  after."  Madeline  waited  a  moment. 
"  Is  she  so  clever,  Betty?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  cried  Betty  eagerly.  "  Don't 
you  remember  her  theme?  " 

"  To  be  sure."  Madeline's  eyes  twinkled. 
"  I'd  forgotten  her  wonderful  theme.  Oh, 
well,  then  I  suppose  she  is  clever — but  I'm 
sorry  for  her." 

"Why?"  asked  Betty  quickly.  Surely 
Madeline  could  not  know  anything  about 
Eleanor's  stepmother,  and  nowadays  her 
career  at  Harding  was  a  series  of  delightful 


88  BETTT  WALES 

triumphs.  More  reason  why  Madeline  should 
envy,  than  pity  her,  Betty  thought. 

"  Oh,  for  lots  of  reasons,"  answered  Made- 
line easily,  "  but  chiefly  because  she's  so 
anxious  about  getting  things  for  herself  that 
she  can't  enjoy  them  when  she's  got  them ; 
and  secondly  because  something  worries  her. 
Watch  her  face  when  she  isn't  smiling,  and 
when  she  thinks  nobody  is  noticing  her.  It's 
so  wonderfully  sad  and  so  perfectly  beautiful 
that  it  makes  me  pity  her  in  spite  of  myself," 
ended  Madeline  with  a  sudden  rush  of  feel- 
ing. "  But  I  can't  love  her,  even  for  you, 
you  funny  child,"  she  added  playfully,  pull- 
ing one  of  Betty's  curls. 

"  I'm  not  a  child,"  retorted  Betty,  with 
great  dignity.  "  I'm  a  sophomore  and  you're 
only  a  little  freshman,  please  remember,  and 
you  have  no  business  pulling  my  hair." 

"  Lights  out  in  two  minutes,  young  ladies," 
called  the  night-watchman  from  below,  and 
freshman  and  sophomore  raced  for  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  AMBITION 

*'  IT  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come  and 
take  me  out  for  a  walk,  little  sister.  My  head 
ached  and  I  knew  I  ought  to  get  some  fresh 
air,  but  I  hadn't  the  resolution  to  start  off 
alone." 

Betty  and  Miss  Hale,  the  "  faculty  "  who 
was  an  intimate  friend  of  Betty's  older  sister, 
had  been  for  a  long,  brisk  tramp  through  the 
woods.  Now  they  were  swinging  home  in  the 
frosty  December  dusk,  tired  and  wind  blown, 
and  yet  refreshed  by  the  keen  air  and  the 
vigorous  exercise. 

Betty  turned  off  the  path  to  scuffle  through 
a  tempting  bed  of  dry  leaves.  "  I  think  it's 
you  who  are  awfully  good  to  let  me  come  for 
you,"  she  said,  stopping  to  wait  for  Miss  Hale 
at  the  end  of  her  run.  "  I  do  get  so  tired 
sometimes  of  seeing  nobody  but  girls,  and 
such  crowds  of  them.  It's  a  great  relief  to 
have  a  walk  and  a  talk  with  you.  It  seems 
almost  like  going  home." 


90          BErrr  WALES 

11  But  you  still  like  college,  don't  you, 
Betty?"  ' 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  assented  Betty  eagerly.  "  I  just 
love  it."  Then  she  laughed  merrily.  "  You 
and  Nan  told  me  the  summer  before  I  came 
here  that  all  nice  girls  liked  college,  so  it's 
hardly  polite  of  you  to  ask  me  now  if  I  like 
it,  Ethel." 

Then  Miss  Hale  laughed  in  her  turn. 
"And  who  are  your  friends  this  year?"  she 
pursued.  "  Has  your  last  year's  crowd  broken 
up?" 

"  Oh,  no  I  We're  all  too  fond  of  one  an- 
other for  that.  Of  course  we're  in  different 
houses  now,  some  of  us,  and  we've  all  made 
lots  of  new  friends  down  on  the  campus.  Do 
you  know  Madeline  Ayres  ?  " 

Miss  Hale  nodded.  "  I'm  glad  you  know 
her,  Betty ;  she's  a  splendid  girl.  And  how  is 
your  proteg6,  Miss  Watson,  getting  on  now- 
adays ?  " 

"Beautifully."  Betty  launched  into  an 
enthusiastic  account  of  Eleanor's  literary 
triumph,  her  softened  manner,  her  sudden 
popularity,  and  her  improved  scholarship. 

Miss    Hale    listened   attentively.     "  That's 


SOPHOMORE  91 

very  interesting,"  she  said.  "  I  had  no  idea 
that  Miss  Watson  would  ever  make  anything 
out  of  her  college  course.  And  do  you  see  as 
much  of  her  as  ever,  or  has  she  dropped  her 
old  friends  now  that  she  has  so  many  new 
ones  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  said  Betty  sadly.  "  You  don't 
like  her  one  bit,  do  you,  Ethel?  I'm  so 
sorry.  Nan  didn't  like  her  either.  Of  course 
I  know  she  has  her  faults,  but  I  do  love  her 
so " 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  broke  in  Miss  Hale 
heartily.  "  She  would  have%  left  Harding  in 
disgrace  last  June,  if  she  hadn't  had  such  a 
loyal  friend  in  you.  We  can't  help  people  un- 
less we  care  for  them,  Betty, — and  sometimes 
not  then,"  added  Ethel  soberly.  "  The  only 
way  is  to  take  all  your  opportunities,  and  then 
if  you  fail  with  one,  as  I  did  with  Miss 
Watson,  you  may  succeed  with  some  one  else. 
And  it's  the  finest  thing  in  college,  Betty,  or 
in  life, — the  feeling  that  you  really  mean 
something  to  somebody.  I  wish  I'd  learned 
to  appreciate  it  sooner." 

They  walked  on  for  a  while  in  silence,  Betty 
wondering  if  she  did  "  really  mean  some- 


92          BErrr 

thing  "  to  Eleanor  or  to  Helen  Adams,  Miss 
Hale  harking  back  to  her  own  college  days 
and  questioning  whether  she  and  her  set  had 
ever  spared  a  thought  for  anything  beyond 
their  own  fun  and  ambitions  and  successes. 
She  blushed  guiltily  in  the  dark,  as  she  re- 
membered how  they  had  snubbed  Nan  Wales, 
until  Nan  actually  forced  them  to  recognize 
her  ability,  and  later  to  discover  that  they  all 
wanted  her  for  a  friend. 

"  I  wonder  if  Nan's  forgotten,"  she  thought. 
"  I  wonder  if  she's  told  Betty  anything  about 
it,  and  if  that's  why  Betty  is  so  different." 

Thinking  of  Nan  finally  brought  Miss  Hale 
out  of  her  reverie.  "  Little  sister,"  she  said, 
"  I  mustn't  forget  to  ask  you  about  Nan. 
Isn't  that  European  trip  of  hers  almost  over? 
She  wrote  me  that  she  should  surely  be  back 
in  time  for  Christmas." 

"Yes,"  assented  Betty,  "she  will.  Her 
steamer  is  due  on  the  eighth." 

"  The  eighth — why  that's  to-day,"  said  Miss 
Hale.  "  Isn't  she  going  to  stop  here  on  her 
way  west  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  answered  Betty,  sadly. 
s  Will  is  going  to  meet  her  in  New  York,  and 


SOPHOMORE  93 

when  I  wrote  home  and  wanted  them  to  stop, 
he  wrote  back  that  he  didn't  propose  to  come 
up  here  to  be  the  only  man  among  a  thousand 
girls.  And  I  suppose  Nan  will  be  so  tired  of 
traveling  around  sight-seeing  that  she  won't 
care  about  stopping,  either." 

They  had  reached  Miss  Hale's  boarding- 
place  by  this  time,  and  Betty  said  good-night 
and  hurried  back  to  the  campus,  full  of  ex- 
citement over  Nan's  return. 

"  Just  think,"  she  told  Helen,  as  she  dressed 
for  the  Hilton  House  dance  to  which  Alice 
Waite  had  invited  her  that  evening,  "  Nan's 
ship  came  in  to-day,  and  I  pretty  nearly  forgot 
all  about  it.  Oh,  dear !  it  seems  as  if  I  must 
see  her  right  off,  and  it's  two  whole  weeks  to 
vacation." 

Just  as  she  spoke,  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  a  maid  held  out  a  telegram.  "  For 
Miss  Wales,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  it's  from  Nan,"  cried  Betty,  snatching 
at  the  bit  of  yellow  paper.  "  And  she's  com- 
ing to-night,"  she  shrieked  so  loudly  that  the 
whole  third  floor  heard  her  and  flocked  out 
into  the  corridor  to  see  what  in  the  world  was 
the  matter. 


94          BErrr  WALES 

The  message  was  provokingly  short  :— 
"  Meet  the  7  : 10  to-night. 

"WILL." 

"  Ohf  I  wonder  if  he's  going  to  stop  too,'* 
said  Betty,  dropping  the  telegram  into  the 
wash-bowl  and  diving  under  the  bed  for  her 
gold  chain,  which  she  had  tossed  there  in 
her  excitement.  "  How  long  do  you  suppose 
they'll  stay  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  can  tell  about  that 
till  they  come,"  said  Helen,  practically.  "Are 
you  going  to  wear  that  dress  to  the  station  to 
meet  them?" 

Betty  stopped  short  in  her  frantic  efforts 
to  fasten  her  belt,  and  stared  blankly  at  her 
filmy  white  gown  and  high-heeled  satin  slip- 
pers. Then  she  dropped  down  on  the  bed 
and  gave  a  long  despairing  sigh.  "  I  haven't 
a  bit  of  sense  left,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  what 
else  I've  forgotten." 

"  Well,  where  are  they  going  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Goodness  !  "  ejaculated  Betty.  "  I  ought 
to  go  out  this  minute  and  hunt  for  rooms." 

"  And  what  about  the  Hilton  House  dance  ? 


SOPHOMORE  95 

Oughtn't    you   to   send  word    if   you're   not 
going?" 

"  Gracious  !  "  exclaimed  Betty.    "  Of  course 
I  ought.     Alice  has  a  card  all  made  out  for 


me." 


Just  then  Mary  Brooks  and  Madeline  Ayres 
sauntered  in.  "  Don't  worry,  child.  You've 
got  oceans  of  time,"  said  Mary,  when  she  had 
heard  the  great  news.  "  We'll  get  you  some 
rooms.  I  know  a  place  just  around  the  cor- 
ner. And  Helen  can  go  and  tell  the  gentle 
Alice  Waite  that  you'll  be  along  later  in  the 
evening  with  your  family.  If  you  want  your 
brother  to  fall  in  love  with  Harding,  you 
must  be  sure  to  have  him  see  that  dance. 
Men  always  go  crazy  over  girl  dances.  And 
if  I  was  offered  sufficient  inducement,"  added 
Mary,  demurely,  "  I  might  possibly  go  over 
to  the  gallery  myself,  and  help  you  amuse 
him — since  none  of  my  Hilton  House  friends 
have  invited  me  to  adorn  the  floor  with  my 
presence." 

So  Mary  and  Madeline  departed  in  one  di- 
rection and  Helen  in  another,  while  an  oblig- 
ing senior  who  roomed  across  the  hall  put 
Betty's  half  of  the  room  to  rights — Helen's 


96  BETTT    WALES 

was  always  in  order, — a  freshman  next  door 
helped  Betty  into  a  white  linen  suit,  which  is 
the  Harding  girl's  regular  compromise  be- 
tween street  and  evening  dress,  and  somebody 
else  telephoned  to  Miss  Hale  that  Nan  was 
coming.  And  the  pleasant  thing  about  it  was 
that  everybody  took  exactly  the  same  interest 
in  the  situation  as  if  the  guests  and  the  hurry 
and  excitement  had  belonged  to  her  instead 
of  to  Betty  Wales.  It  is  thus  that  things  are 
done  at  Harding. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Will  did  not  wait  until 
he  had  seen  the  Hilton  House  dance  to  become 
enamored  of  Harding  College.  When  he 
and  Nan  arrived  they  announced  that  they 
had  only  stopped  over  for  the  evening,  and 
should  go  west  on  the  sleeper  that  same  night. 
But  as  they  were  sitting  in  the  Belden  House 
parlor,  while  Nan  and  Betty  discussed  plans 
for  showing  Will  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
college  in  one  evening,  Mary  Brooks  sauntered 
through  the  hall,  ostensibly  on  her  way  to  do 
an  errand  at  the  Westcott  House.  Of  course 
Betty  called  her  in,  and  five  minutes  later 
Will  announced  that  he  couldn't  think  of  not 
occupying  the  room  which  Miss  Brooks  had 


SOPHOMORE  97 

been  good  enough  to  engage  for  him ;  and  he 
and  Mary  went  off  to  the  gymnasium  gallery, 
which  is  as  near  as  man  may  come  to  the  joys 
of  a  "  girl  dance  "  at  Harding.  There  Betty 
promised  to  join  them  as  soon  as  Miss  Hale 
arrived  to  spend  the  evening  with  Nan.  And 
Miss  Hale  had  no  sooner  appeared  than  Nan 
telephoned  for  her  trunks  and  made  a  dinner 
engagement  that  would  keep  her  until  the 
next  night  at  least.  In  the  morning  Will  re- 
membered that  John  Parsons  was  still  at 
Winsted,  and  announced  that  he  should  spend 
the  following  day  on  an  exploring  tour  over 
there.  And  Mr.  Parsons  insisted  that  you 
could  not  see  Winsted  properly  unless  you  had 
some  Harding  girls  along,  and  as  the  first 
snow  of  the  season  had  just  fallen,  he  organ- 
ized a  sleighing  party,  with  Nan  and  Miss 
Hale  as  chaperons.  Then  Will  gave  a  return 
dinner  at  Cuyler's,  which  took  another  day,  so 
that  a  week  sped  by  before  Betty's  guests 
could  possibly  get  away  from  Harding. 

"  And  now,"  said  Betty  to  Will  on  the 
afternoon  before  the  one  set  for  their  depar- 
ture, "  I  think  you'd  better  stay  another  week 
and  see  me." 


98          BErrr  WALES 

"  Wish  we  could,"  said  Will  absently.  "  1 
haven't  had  time  to  call  on  Miss  Waite.  I've 
only  been  snow-shoeing  once  with  Miss  Ayres, 
and  I've  got  to  have  another  skate  with  Miss 
Kittredge.  She's  a  stunner  on  the  ice.  I  say, 
Betty,  you  don't  suppose  she'd  get  up  and  go 
before  breakfast,  do  you  ?  I'd  ask  her  to  cut 
chapel,  only  I  promised  to  take  Miss  Brooks." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  Betty,  with  feigned  indig- 
nation. "  I  guess  that  on  the  whole  it's  a 
good  thing  you're  going  to-morrow." 

"  Now  why  do  you  say  that  ?  Haven't  I 
behaved  like  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman  ? " 
demanded  Will  gaily. 

"  It's  your  conduct  as  a  brother  that  I  ob- 
ject to,"  returned  Betty  severely.  "  Nobody 
pays  any  attention  to  me.  Nan's  gone  off 
sleighing  with  Roberta,  and  you're  only  en- 
during my  society  until  Dorothy  King  finishes 
her  Lab.  and  you  can  go  off  walking  with  her. 
Then  I  shall  be  left  to  my  own  devices." 

"  To  your  studies  you  mean,  my  child," 
corrected  Will.  "  Do  you  think  that  Nan  and 
I  would  be  so  inconsiderate  as  to  come  down 
here  and  break  up  the  regular  routine  of  your 
college  work  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  99 

"  How  about  the  regular  routine  of  Dorothy 
King's  work  ?  "  inquired  Betty  saucily.  "  And 
Mary  Brooks's  ?  " 

Will  took  out  a  card  from  his  pocket  and 
consulted  its  entries  industriously.  "  I  have 
only  one  date  with  Miss  Brooks  to-morrow, 
and  none  at  all  with  Miss  King,  more's  the  pity." 

"  It's  queer,"  said  Betty  reflectively.  "  You 
never  can  prophesy  what  girls  men  will  take 
to.  Now  I  should  have  supposed  that  you'd 
like  Nita  Reese  and  Eleanor  Watson  best  of 
all  the  ones  you've  met.  They're  both  so 
pretty." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Will  severely.  "  We 
men  don't  go  so  much  by  looks  as  some  of 
you  think  we  do.  And  anyhow  Miss  Brooks 
and  Miss  King  are  good-lookers  too.  Miss 
Reese  is  a  nice  girl,  but  she's  a  little  too  quiet 
for  me,  and  Miss  Watson — let's  see,  she  was  at 
that  dance  the  first  night,  wasn't  she?  I 
didn't  see  much  of  her,  but  I  remember  she's 
a  stunner." 

"  She's  one  of  my  best  friends,"  said  Betty, 
proudly.  "  Oh,  here  comes  Dorothy,"  she 
added,  glancing  out  the  window.  "  I  hope 
you'll  have  a  nice  walk." 


ioo        BErrr  WALES 

"  See  here,  little  sister,"  began  Will,  block 
ing  Betty's  progress  to  the  door.  "  You 
weren't  in  earnest  about  my  having  run  off 
and  left  you  so  much  ?  " 

Betty  laughed  merrily.  "  I  should  think 
not,"  she  said.  "  If  you  must  know  it,  I'm 
awfully  proud  of  my  popular  family.  I  hope 
you  understand  that  Mary  Brooks  and  Doro- 
thy King  don't  take  the  trouble  to  entertain 
everybody's  brother.  Now  hurry  up,  or 
she'll  get  way  into  the  house  before  you  can 
catch  her." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  commanded  Will. 
"  Have  we  anything  on  for  to-night  ?  " 

"  Nan  has,  but  you  and  I  haven't." 

"  Then  let's  eat  a  nice  little  dinner  at  Cuy- 
ler's,"  suggested  Will.  "  Just  you  and  I  and 
one  more  for  variety.  You  ask  any  one  you 
like,  and  I'll  call  for  you  at  six." 

"  Lovely  I  Don't  you  really  care  whom  I 
ask?" 

"Pick  out  a  good-looker,"  called  Will, 
striding  off  to  meet  Dorothy. 

Betty  had  no  trouble  in  choosing  the  third 
person  to  make  up  the  dinner  party  It 
should  be  Eleanor  Watson,  of  course.  Will 


SOPHOMORE  101 

would  like  her — men  always  did.  She  had 
been  tired  and  not  in  a  mood  to  exert  herself 
the  night  of  the  Hilton  House  dance  ;  and  one 
thing  or  another  had  interfered  with  her  join- 
ing in  any  of  the  festivities  since. 

"  But  she'll  be  all  ready  for  a  celebration 
to-day,  with  her  story  just  out  in  the  '  Argus/  ' 
reflected  Betty,  and  started  at  once  for  the 
Hilton  House. 

Eleanor  was  curled  up  in  her  easy  chair  by 
the  window,  poring  over  a  mass  of  type- writ- 
ten sheets.  "  Studying  my  part  for  a  little 
play  we're  giving  next  Saturday  night,"  she 
announced  gaily,  as  Betty  came  in.  "  So  re- 
member, you're  not  to  stay  long." 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  anything  you  can't 
do,  Eleanor,"  declared  Betty,  admiringly. 
"  I'm  awfully  proud  of  knowing  such  a  star. 
I  read  your  story  in  the  '  Argus '  the  first 
thing  after  lunch,  and  I  thought  it  was  per- 
fectly splendid." 

"Did  you?"  said  Eleanor,  carelessly. 
"  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be  good  for  some- 
thing, to  have  so  much  said  about  it ;  but  I 
for  one  am  thoroughly  tired  of  it.  I'm  going 
to  try  to  act  so  well  on  Saturday  that  peo- 


102 

pie  will  have  something  else  to  talk  to  me 
about." 

"  You  will,"  said  Betty,  with  decision. 
"  You  made  a  splendid  leading  lady  last  year 
in  Sherlock  Holmes,  and  you  didn't  try  at 
all  then.  Well,"  she  added  quickly,  "  you 
said  I  mustn't  stay  long,  so  I  must  hurry  and 
tell  you  what  I  came  for.  I  want  you  to 
have  dinner  with  Will  and  me  to-night  at 
Cuyler's." 

"  That's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Eleanor 
formally,  "  and  I'm  sorry  that  I  can't  come. 
But  it's  quite  impossible." 

"  Oh  dear  1 "  There  was  nothing  perfunc- 
tory about  Betty's  regret.  "  Couldn't  you 
learn  your  part  this  evening  ?  It  won't  take 
you  any  longer  to  eat  at  Cuyler's  than  it 
would  here,  and  you  can  come  right  back." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  the  play,"  said  Eleanor.  "  I 
could  manage  that;  but  Beatrice  Egerton  is 
going  to  be  here  for  dinner." 

"  Oh,  of  course  if  you've  asked  any  one  to 
dinner "  began  Betty. 

"  No,"  broke  in  Eleanor,  impatiently,  "  I 
haven't  asked  her,  but  Lil  Day  has.  She's 
invited  me  to  sit  with  them,  and  she'd  be 


SOPHOMORE  103 

awfully  vexed  if  I  ran  off.  You  know,"  went 
on  Eleanor,  impressively,  "  Beatrice  Egerton 
is  the  most  prominent  girl  in  the  senior 
class." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Betty,  blankly. 

"  And  I  barely  know  her,"  continued 
Eleanor,  "  so  this  is  my  opportunity,  you  see. 
Lil  thinks  she'll  like  me.  She's  very  influ- 
ential, and  she  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  par- 
ticular friends  in  our  class.  Do  you  know 
her  at  all  ?  " 

Betty  shook  her  head. 

"  But  you're  so  solid  with  Dorothy  King," 
said  Eleanor.  "  She's  just  about  as  promi' 
nent  as  Bess  Egerton.  We  have  to  look  out 
for  those  things,  don't  we,  Betty?  " 

"  If  you  mean,"  began  Betty,  slowly,  "  that 
I  like  Dorothy  King  because  she's  an  influ- 
ential senior,  why,  please  never  think  so 
again,  Eleanor.  I  like  her  just  as  I  like  any 
one  else,  because  she's  so  dear  and  sweet  and 
such  a  fine,  all-around  girl." 

Eleanor  laughed  scornfully.  "  Oh,  of 
course,"  she  said,  "  but  you  have  your  little 
plans,  I  suppose,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Anyhow,  if  you  haven't,  I  have ;  and  I  put 


BErrr 

future  honors  ahead  of  present  bliss,  so  I  can't 
go  with  you  to  Cuyler's.  Please  tell  your 
brother  that  I'm  very  sorry." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty.  "  He  will  be  sorry,  too. 
Good-bye,  Eleanor." 

It  seemed  a  long  walk  back  to  the  Belden 
House.  The  snow  had  turned  to  slush,  and 
Betty  sank  into  it  at  every  step.  The  raw 
wind  blew  her  hair  into  her  eyes.  The  world 
looked  dull  and  uninteresting  all  of  a  sudden. 
When  she  reached  home,  Helen  was  getting 
ready  for  gym. 

"Helen  Chase  Adams,"  began  Betty,  sav- 
agely. "  Do  you  see  any  use  in  ambition?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  gasped  Helen. 

"  What?  "  demanded  Betty. 

"  Why — it  helps  you  to  get  things,"  ven- 
tured Helen. 

"  May  be  they're  not  worth  getting," 
snapped  Betty. 

"  Well,  isn't  it  better  to  try  to  get  foolish 
things  than  just  to  sit  around  and  do  noth- 
ing?" 

"  No,"  answered  Betty  with  emphasis. 
"  People  who  just  sit  around  and  do  noth- 
ing, as  you  call  it,  have  friends  and  like  them, 


SOPHOMORE  105 

and  aren't  all  the  time  thinking  what  they 
can  get  out  of  them." 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  I  have  to  go  to  gym,"  said 
Helen.  "  I  don't  think  ambitious  people 
always  depend  on  their  friends." 

Left  to  herself,  Betty  came  to  a  more  judi- 
cial state  of  mind.  "  I  suppose,"  she  said  to 
the  green  lizard,  "  I  suppose  I'm  the  kind  that 
just  sits  around  and  does  nothing.  I  suppose 
we're  irritating  too.  It  makes  Helen  mad 
when  I  write  my  papers  any  old  way,  while 
she's  toiling  along,  trying  to  do  her  best. 
And  she  makes  me  cross  by  fussing  so.  She 
has  one  kind  of  ambition  and  Eleanor  has  an- 
other. I  haven't  any,  and  I  suppose  they 
both  wish  I'd  have  some  kind.  Oh,  dear  !  I 
don't  believe  Madeline  Ayres  is  ambitious 
either,  and  Ethel  Hale  called  her  a  splendid 
girl.  I'll  go  and  ask  her  to  come  to  dinner 
with  us." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON    TO    MIDYEARS 

EXACTLY  a  week  after  Nan  and  Will  left 
Harding,  Betty  herself  was  speeding  west, 
with  Roberta  Lewis  as  traveling  companion. 
Nan  had  discovered  that  Roberta's  father  was 
in  California,  and  that  she  was  planning  to 
spend  her  Christmas  vacation  in  solitary  state 
at  Mrs.  Chapin's,  without  letting  even  her 
adored  Mary  Brooks  know  how  matters  stood. 
But  Nan's  arguments,  backed  by  Betty's 
powers  of  persuasion,  were  irresistible ;  and 
Roberta  finally  consented  to  come  to  Cleve- 
land instead. 

It  was  amusing,  and  a  little  pathetic  too,  to 
watch  the  shy  Roberta  expand  in  the  genial, 
happy-go-lucky  atmosphere  of  the  Wales 
household.  A  lonely,  motherless  child 
brought  up  by  a  father  who  loved  her  dearly, 
treated  her  as  an  equal,  and  was  too  absorbed 
in  his  own  affairs  to  realize  that  she  needed 
any  companionship  but  his  own,  she  had 
been  absolutely  swept  off  her  feet  by  the  rush 

1 06 


SOPHOMORE  107 

of  young  life  at  Harding.  The  only  close 
friend  she  had  made  there  was  Mary  Brooks ; 
and,  though  Mary  fully  reciprocated  Roberta's 
fondness  for  her,  she  was  a  person  of  so  many 
ideas  and  interests  that  Roberta  was  necessa- 
rily left  a  good  deal  to  herself.  During  her 
first  year,  the  sociable  atmosphere  of  the 
Chapin  house  had  helped  to  break  down  her 
reserve  and  bring  her,  in  spite  of  herself,  into 
touch  with  the  college  world.  But  now,  in  a 
house  full  of  noisy,  rollicking  freshmen,  who 
thought  her  queer  and  "  stuck-up,"  she  was 
bitterly  unhappy.  So  she  shut  herself  in  with 
her  books  and  her  thoughts,  wondered  whether 
being  on  the  campus  would  really  make  any 
difference  in  her  feelings  about  college,  and 
stayed  on  only  because  of  her  devotion  to 
Mary  and  her  unwillingness  to  disappoint  her 
father,  who  was  very  proud  of  "  my  daughter 
at  Harding." 

Roberta  loved  children,  and  she  and  the 
smallest  sister  instantly  became  fast  friends. 
Will  frightened  her  dreadfully  at  first,  but  be- 
fore the  week  was  out  she  found  herself  chat- 
ting with  him  just  as  familiarly  as  she  did 
with  her  Boston  cousin,  who  was  the  only 


io8        Bzrrr  WALES 

young  man  she  knew  well.  And  after  she  had 
helped  Mrs.  Wales  to  trim  the  smallest  sister's 
Christmas  tree,  and  been  down  town  with  Mr. 
Wales  to  pick  out  some  books  for  him  to  give 
Nan, — "  Because  you  and  Nan  seem  to  be  cut 
out  of  the  same  piece  of  cloth,  you  see,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Wales  genially, — Roberta  felt  ex- 
actly like  one  of  the  family,  and  hoarded  the 
days,  and  then  the  hours,  that  remained  of 
this  blissful  vacation. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  go  back,"  she  told 
Betty,  when  the  good-byes  had  all  been  said, 
and  the  long  train  was  rumbling  through  the 
darkness  toward  Harding. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  leave  too,"  said  Betty 
dreamily.  "  It's  been  a  jolly  old  vacation. 
But  think  how  we  should  feel  if  we  couldn't 
go  back  at  all — if  the  family  fortune  was 
swept  away  all  of  a  sudden,  or  if  we  were 
sick  or  anything,  and  had  to  drop  out  of  dear 
old  19—." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roberta  briefly. 

Betty  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  Don't  you 
like  college,  Roberta  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Betty,  I  can't  bear  it,"  declared  Roberta 
in  an  unwonted  burst  of  confidence.  "  I  stay 


SOPHOMORE  109 

on  because  I  hate  people  who  give  things  up 
just  because  they  don't  like  doing  them. 
But  it  seems  sometimes  as  if  I  couldn't  stand 
it  much  longer." 

"  Too  bad  you  didn't  get  on  the  campus. 
Perhaps  you  will  this  term,"  suggested  Betty 
hopefully,  "  and  then  I  know  you'll  fall  abso- 
lutely in  love  with  college." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  will  make  a  bit  of 
difference,  and  anyway  Miss  Stuart  said  I 
hadn't  the  least  chance  of  getting  on  this 
year." 

"Then,"  returned  Betty  cheerfully, 
"  you'll  just  have  to  make  the  best  of  it 
where  you  are.  Some  of  the  Chapin  house 
freshmen  are  dear.  I  love  that  cunning  little 
Sara  Westervelt." 

"  Isn't  she  pretty  ?  "  Roberta's  drawl  was 
almost  enthusiastic.  "  But  she  never  speaks  to 
me,"  she  added  sadly. 

"  Speak  to  her,"  said  Betty  promptly.  "  You 
probably  frighten  her  to  death,  and  freeze  her 
all  up.  Treat  her  as  you  did  the  smallest 
sister." 

Roberta  laughed  merrily.  "  It's  funny, 
isn't  it,  that  I  can  get  on  with  children  and 


no        BErrr 

most  older  people,  but  not  at  all  with  those  of 
my  own  age." 

"  Oh,  you  only  need  practice,"  said  Betty 
easily.  "Go  at  it  just  as  you  go  at  your 
chemistry  problems.  Figure  out  what  those 
freshmen  like  and  give  it  to  them.  Have  a 
party  and  do  the  Jabberwock  for  them. 
They'd  be  your  slaves  for  life." 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't,"  protested  Roberta.  "  It 
would  seem  so  like  showing  off." 

"Don't  think  about  yourself;  think  about 
them.  And  now,"  added  Betty  yawning,  "  as 
we  were  up  till  two  last  night,  I  think  we'd 
better  go  to  bed,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Roberta,  "  and — and  thank  you 
for  telling  me  that  I'm  offish,  Betty.  Could 
you  come  to  the  Jabberwock  party  Monday 
night,  if  I  should  decide  to  have  it  ?  " 

Though  Rachel  was  off  the  campus,  her 
room  was  far  and  away  the  most  popular 
meeting  place  for  the  Chapin  house  crowd. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  the  quiet  of  the  little 
white  house  round  the  corner  was  a  relief 
after  the  noisy  bustle  of  the  big  campus 
dormitories.  But  besides,  there  was  some- 


SOPHOMORE  in 

thing  about  Rachel  that  made  her  quite  indis- 
pensable to  all  gatherings  of  the  clan. 
Katherine  was  fun  when  you  were  in  the 
mood  for  her  ;  Roberta,  if  she  was  in  the  mood 
for  you.  Betty  was  always  fascinating,  al- 
ways responsive,  but  in  many  ways  she  was 
only  a  pretty  child.  Helen  and  Eleanor, 
unlike  in  almost  everything  else,  were  at  one 
in  being  self-centred.  Rachel  was  as  jolly  as 
Katherine,  as  sympathetic  as  Betty,  and  far 
more  mature  than  either  of  her  friends.  As 
Katherine  put  it,  "  you  could  always  bank  on 
Rachel  to  know  what  was  what." 

So  it  was  no  unusual  thing  to  find  two  or 
three  of  the  "  old  guard,"  as  Rachel  dubbed 
them,  and  perhaps  two  or  three  outsiders  as 
well,  gathered  in  her  tiny  room,  in  the  dark 
of  the  afternoon,  talking  over  the  happenings 
of  the  day  and  drinking  tea  out  of  the  cups 
which  were  the  pride  of  Rachel's  heart,  be- 
cause they  were  all  pretty  and  none  of  them 
had  cost  more  than  ten  cents. 

One  snowy  afternoon  in  January  Betty 
walked  home  with  Rachel  from  their  four 
o'clock  class  in  history. 

"  Come  in,  children,"  called  a  merry  voice, 


H2        BErrr  WALES 

as  they  opened  Rachel's  door.  "  Take  off 
your  things  and  make  yourselves  at  home. 
The  tea  will  be  ready  in  about  five  minutes." 

"  Hello,  Katherine,"  said  Betty,  cheerfully, 
tossing  her  note-book  on  the  bed  and  shaking 
the  snow  off  her  fuzzy  gray  tarn. 

"  Isn't  it  nice  to  come  in  and  find  the  duties 
of  hostess  taken  off  your  shoulders  in  this 
pleasant  fashion  !  "  laughed  Rachel.  "  I  hope 
you've  washed  the  cups,"  she  added,  settling 
herself  cozily  on  the  window  seat.  "  They 
haven't  been  dusted  for  three  weeks." 

"  Indeed  I  haven't  washed  them,"  answered 
Catherine  loftily.  "  I'm  the  hostess.  You 
can  be  guest,  and  Betty  can  be  dish-washer." 

"  Not  unless  I  can  wiggle  the  tea-ball  after- 
ward," announced  Betty  firmly. 

Katherine  examined  a  blue  and  white  cup 
critically.  "  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken, 
Rachel,"  she  said.  "  These  cups  don't  need 
washing.  They're  perfectly  clean,  but  I'll 
dust  them  off  if  you  insist." 

Then  there  was  a  grand  scramble,  in  the 
course  of  which  Betty  captured  the  tea-ball 
and  the  lemons,  and  Katherine  the  teakettle, 
while  Rachel  secured  two  cups  and  retired 


SOPHOMORE  113 

from  the  scene  of  action  to  wash  them  for 
Betty  and  herself.  Finally  Katherine  agreed 
that  Betty  might  "  wiggle  the  tea-ball,"  pro- 
vided that  she — Katherine — should  be  al- 
lowed two  pieces  of  lemon  in  every  cup  ;  and 
the  three  lively  damsels  settled  down  into  a 
sedate  group  of  tea-drinkers. 

"  Do  you  know,  girls,"  said  Katherine,  after 
they  had  compared  programs  for  midyears, 
and  each  decided  sadly  that  her  particular  ar- 
rangement of  examinations  was  a  great  deal 
more  onerous  than  the  schedules  of  her 
friends, — "  Do  you  know,  I  was  just  begin- 
ning to  like  Eleanor  Watson,  but  I  wash  my 
hands  of  her  now." 

"Why?  What's  she  done  lately?"  in- 
quired Rachel. 

"  Oh,  she  hasn't  done  anything  in  particu- 
lar," said  Katherine.  "  It's  her  manner  that 
I  object  to.  It  was  bad  enough  last  year,  but 
now "  Katherine's  gesture  suggested  in- 
describable insolence. 

Betty  said  nothing.  She  was  thinking  of 
her  last  interview  with  Eleanor,  whom  she 
had  not  seen  for  more  than  a  casual  moment 
since  the  day  of  Will's  dinner,  and  wondering 


ii4        BErrr  WALES 

whether  after  all  Ethel  Hale  was  right  about 
her,  and  she  was  wrong.  It  did  seem  amaz- 
ingly as  if  Eleanor  was  giving  up  her  old 
friends  for  the  new  ones. 

"  But  Katherine,"  began  Rachel  soothingly, 
"  you  must  remember  that  her  rather  drop- 
ping us  now  doesn't  really  mean  much.  We 
should  never  have  known  her  at  all  if  we 
hadn't  happened  to  be  in  the  house  with  her 
last  year.  It  was  only  chance  that  threw  us 
together,  so  there  really  isn't  any  reason  why 
she  should  keep  up  the  acquaintance  unless 
she  wants  to." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  the  slightest  reason,"  agreed 
Katherine,  wrathfully.  "  And  on  the  same 
principle  let  us  all  proceed  to  cut  Helen  Chase 
Adams.  She  isn't  exactly  our  kind.  We 
should  never  have  known  her  if  we  hadn't 
happened  to  be  in  the  house  with  her  last 
year.  So  let's  drop  her." 

"  Oh,  you  silly  child,"  laughed  Rache2, 
"  Of  course  I  don't  approve  of  Eleanor  Wat- 
son's way  of  doing  things.  I  only  wanted  to 
explain  what  is  probably  her  point  of  view.  I 
can  understand  it,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that 
I'm  going  to  adopt  it." 


SOPHOMORE  115 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  snorted  Katherine. 
"  I  met  my  lady  this  afternoon  at  Cuyler's.  I 
was  buying  molasses  candy  for  this  function — 
by  the  way,  I  forgot  to  pass  it  around.  Do 
have  some.  And  she  was  in  there  with  that 
high  and  mighty  senior,  Beatrice  Egerton,  or- 
dering a  dinner  for  to-morrow  night.  I  had 
on  my  green  sweater  and  an  old  skirt,  and  I 
don't  suppose  I  looked  exactly  like  a  Fifth 
Avenue  swell.  But  that  didn't  matter ;  the 
lady  Eleanor  didn't  see  me." 

Rachel  laughed  merrily.  "  So  that  was  it," 
she  said.  "  I  knew  there  was  something  per- 
sonal behind  your  wrath,  and  I  was  waiting 
for  it  to  come  out.  Never  mind,  K.;  Betty 
and  I  won't  cut  you,  even  in  your  green 
sweater." 

"  That's  good  of  you,"  said  Katherine, 
spearing  a  thick  slice  of  lemon  for  her  third 
cup.  "  Seriously  though,  my  green  sweater 
aside,  I  do  hate  such  snobbishness." 

"  But  Eleanor  Watson  isn't  exactly  a  snob," 
objected  Rachel.  "  There's  Dora  Carlson." 

"  Dora  Carlson  !  "  repeated  Katherine,  scorn- 
fully. "  You  don't  mean  that  she's  taken  you 
in  with  that,  Rachel  ?  Why,  it's  nothing  but 


ii6  BETTT   WALES 

the  most  transparent  sort  of  grand-stand  play 
I  supposed  the  lady  Eleanor  had  more  sense 
than  to  think  that  the  Dora  Carlson  episode 
would  take  in  any  one." 

Betty  had  been  sitting  quietly  in  her  corner 
of  the  window  seat,  not  taking  any  part  in  the 
discussion,  because  there  was  nothing  that  she 
cared  to  say  on  either  side  of  it.  Now  she 
leaned  forward  suddenly.  "Oh,  Katherine, 
please  don't  say  that,"  she  begged.  "  Indeed 
it  isn't  so  !  I  know — Eleanor  told  me  herself 
that  she  is  awfully  fond  of  Dora  Carlson, — 
that  she  appreciates  the  way  Dora  feels  to- 
ward her,  and  means  to  be  worthy  of  it  if  she 
possibly  can." 

"  Then  I'm  sure  I  beg  her  pardon,"  said 
Katherine  heartily.  "  Only — when  did  she 
tell  you  that,  Betty  ?  " 

"  Oh,  back  in  the  fall,  just  a  little  whilt 
after  the  sophomore  reception." 

"  I  thought  so,  and  I  don't  doubt  that  she 
meant  it  when  she  said  it.  But  she's  com- 
pletely changed  since  then.  Don't  you  re- 
member how  we  used  to  count  on  her  for  all 
our  little  reunions  ?  Why,  she  was  quite  one 
of  the  old  guard  for  a  month  or  two.  But 


SOPHOMORE  117 

ever  since  that  wonderful  story  of  hers  came 
out  in  the  '  Argus/  she's  gone  in  for  the 
prominent  sophomore  act  with  such  a  venge- 
ance  "  Katherine  stopped  suddenly,  no- 
ticing Betty's  distressed  expression.  "  Oh, 
well,"  she  said,  "  there's  no  use  going  over  it 
again.  I  suppose  you  and  Rachel  are  right, 
and  I'm  wrong." 

"  Only  you  do  resent  the  injustice  done 
your  green  sweater,"  said  Rachel,  hoping  to 
close  the  discussion  with  a  laugh. 

But  Katherine  was  in  deadly  earnest.  "  I 
don't  care  how  the  lady  Eleanor  treats  me 
and  my  green  sweater,"  she  said,  "  but  there 
are  some  people  who've  done  too  much  for 

her Well,  what  I  mean  is,  I  hope  she'll 

never  go  back  on  her  real  friends,"  she  fin- 
ished lamely. 

"  Well,  if  one  prominent  sophomore  snubs 
us,  we  can  always  comfort  ourselves  with  the 
thought  that  another  is  going  to  love  us  to 
the  end,"  said  Rachel,  reaching  over  a  mound 
of  pillows  to  squeeze  Betty's  hand.  "  Did 
you  know  you're  a  prominent  sophomore, 
Betty?" 

"  I'm    not,"   said    Betty,    indignantly.     "  I 


n8        BErrr  WALES 

wouldn't  be  such  a  thing  for  the  world.  I 
hate  the  word  prominent,  the  way  we  use  it 
here." 

Katherine  exchanged  rapid  glances  with 
Rachel.  "  Something  personal  behind  that, 
too,"  she  reflected.  "  If  the  lady  Eleanor 
dares  to  go  back  on  Betty,  I  shall  start  out 
after  her  scalp." 

So  it  was  fortunate  that  Betty  and  Eleanor 
did  not  meet  on  their  respective  homeward 
ways  until  Katherine  was  well  inside  the 
Westcott  House,  out  of  hearing  of  their  col- 
loquy. Between  the  darkness  and  the  flying 
snow  the  two  girls  were  close  together  before 
they  recognized  each  other.  Then  Eleanor 
was  hurrying  on  with  some  commonplace 
about  "  the  beastly  weather,"  when  Betty 
stopped  her. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you,"  she 
said,  "  Rachel  and  Katherine  and  I,  over  in 
Rachel's  room,  wondering  why  you  never 
meet  with  the  old  guard  any  more." 

"  Why,  I'm  busy,"  said  Eleanor,  shortly. 
"  Didn't  you  know  that  it's  less  than  a  week 
to  midyears?  " 

'•  But  all  this  term "  protested  Betty, 


SOPHOMORE  119 

wishing  she  had  said  nothing,  yet  reluctant 
now  to  let  the  opportunity  slip  through  her 
hands. 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  broke  in  Eleanor, 
impatiently,  "  our  interests  are  different, 
Betty, — they  have  been  from  the  first.  You 
like  to  be  friends  with  everybody.  I  like  to 
pick  and  choose.  I  don't  really  care  any- 
thing about  the  rest  of  the  Chapin  house 
girls,  and  I  can't  see  you  without  seeing  them 
too." 

"  But  this  fall,"  began  Betty. 

"Well— the  truth  is  this  fall "said 

Eleanor,  fiercely,  "  this  fall  I  forgot  who  I  was 
and  what  I  was.  Now  I've  come  to  my  senses 
again."  And  without  giving  Betty  time  to 
reply  she  swept  off  into  the  darkness. 

Betty  wasn't  very  hungry  for  dinner.  As 
soon  as  possible  she  slipped  out  of  the  noisy 
dining-room,  up  to  the  silence  of  the  deserted 
third  floor. 

"  What  I  can't  understand,"  she  told  the 
green  lizard,  "  is  the  way  her  voice  sounded. 
It  certainly  broke  just  as  if  she  was  trying  not 
to  cry.  Now,  why  should  that  be?  Is  she 
sorry  to  have  come  to  her  senses,  I  wonder  ?  " 


120        BErrr  WALES 

The  green  lizard  had  no  suggestions  to  offer, 
8O  Betty  put  on  her  new  kimono  with  butter- 
flies in  the  border  and  a  bewitching  pink  sash 
—it  was  real  Japanese  and  the  envy  of  all  her 
friends — and  prepared  to  spend  the  evening 
cramming  for  her  history  exam,  with  Nita 
Reese. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  "  FIRST  FOUR" 

MIDYEARS  were  safely  over,  and  schedules 
for  the  new  term  more  or  less  satisfactorily 
arranged.  It  was  Saturday  night — the  gayest 
in  all  the  week — and  up  on  the  fourth  floor 
of  the  Belden  House  Nita  Reese  was  giving  a 
birthday  spread.  Until  she  came  to  Harding, 
Nita's  birthday  had  always  been  in  August. 
At  the  beginning  of  her  sophomore  year  she 
announced  that  she  had  changed  it  to  Feb- 
ruary ninth. 

"  I  told  the  family,"  explained  Nita,  "  that 
just  because  I  happened  to  be  born  in  August 
they  needn't  think  they  could  get  out  of  send- 
ing me  a  birthday  box.  Father  wanted  to 
know  if  that  let  him  off  from  giving  me  a 
sailing  party  next  August,  and  I  said  that  I'd 
leave  it  to  him.  I  knew  he  wouldn't  miss 
that  sailing  party  for  anything." 

Nita  disappeared  behind  a  screen,  where, 
on  the  wash-stand,  in  lieu  of  a  buffet,  the 
good  things  from  the  birthday  box  ware  ar- 

121 


122        BErrr  WALES 

ranged  on  tin-box  covers  and  wooden  plates. 
There  were  nine  china  plates  for  the  twelve 
guests,  and  a  cup  and  a  sherbet  glass  apiece, 
which  is  an  abundance  for  any  three-course 
supper,  however  elaborate. 

"  Girls,  do  you  realize  what's  happening 
to-night?"  said  Nita,  emerging  from  behind 
the  screen  with  a  plate  of  sandwiches  in  one 
hand  and  a  tray  of  cake  in  the  other.  "  Here, 
Betty  Wales,  have  some  cake.  Or  are  you 
still  on  salad  and  sandwiches  ?  " 

"  I'm  still  on  salad  and  sandwiches,  but  I 
do  want  that  big  piece  of  chocolate  cake  be- 
fore Madeline  Ay Oh,  Madeline,  aren't 

you  ashamed  ?  You've  made  me  spill  coffee 
on  Nita's  Bagdad." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Madeline  Ayres, 
composedly.  "  You  were  implying  that  I'm 
a  pig.  I'm  not ;  I'm  only  devoted  to  chocolate." 

"What's  happening  to-night,  Nita?"  de- 
manded Bob,  popping  up  like  a  Jack-in-the- 
box  from  behind  Madeline's  back. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Betty,  resignedly. 
"  I've  spilled  it  again !  Where  have  you 
been,  Bob?" 

"  Oh,  I've  just  been  resting  back  there  be- 


SOPHOMORE  123 

tween  the  courses,"  said  Bob,  edging  herself 
to  the  front  of  the  couch  and  beginning  on 
the  nearest  dish  of  strawberry  ice.  (The 
strawberry  ice  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a 
part  of  the  birthday  box.)  "  I  feel  quite 
hungry  again  now.  What's  to-night,  Nita?" 

"  Why,  society  elections,  of  course,  goosie," 
answered  Christy  Mason  from  the  window 
where  she  was  cooling  a  pan  of  fudge.  "  Girls, 
this  fudge  is  going  to  be  elegant  and  creamy. 
Reach  me  the  marsh-mallows,  Babe,  that's  a 
dear.  Shall  I  make  it  all  over  marsh-mallows, 
Nita?" 

"•  Yes ! "  chorused  the  occupants  of  the 
couch,  vociferously. 

"  To  hear  the  animals  roar,  you  wouldn't 
think  they'd  been  eating  steadily  for  an  hour, 
would  you,  Nita  ?  "  laughed  Christy,  sticking 
in  the  marsh-mallows  in  neat,  even  rows,  like 
white  tents  pitched  across  the  creamy  brown 
field  of  chocolate. 

"  It's  not  that  we're  hungry,  Nita,  dear,  but 
we  all  like  it  better  that  way,  because  it's 
newer,"  explained  Alice  Waite,  who  never 
took  a  joke  and  couldn't  bear  to  have  Nita's 
feelings  hurt. 


124        BErrr  WALES 

11  Hungry  !  "  groaned  Rachel,  from  her  cor- 
ner. "  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  be  hungry 
again.  Who  do  you  suppose  will  go  in  to- 
night?" 

"Go  in  where,  Rachel ? "  asked  Bob,  drop- 
ping back  again  on  the  pillows  behind  Made- 
line and  Betty. 

"  Aren't  you  a  sweet  little  innocent,  Bob 
Parker?"  mocked  Babbie,  derisively.  "As  if 
you  hadn't  betted  me  six  strawberry  ices  and 
three  dinners  at  Cuyler's  that  you  go  into  the 
Dramatic  Club  to-night,  your  own  self." 

"  When  I  get  you  alone,"  began  Bob,  wrath- 
fully.  Then  her  tone  changed  instantly  to 
one  of  honeyed  sweetness.  "  No,"  she  said, 
"  you're  such  an  artistic  prevaricator  that  I'll 
give  you  one  dinner  at  Cuyler's  as  your  well- 
earned  reward." 

Christy  Mason  dropped  her  pan  of  fudge, 
seized  a  candle  from  the  chiffonier  and  held 
it  close  to  Bob's  prostrate  form.  "  Girls,"  she 
shrieked,  "it's  true.  Bob's  blushing.  She 
hasn't  blushed  since  the  president  spoke  to 
her  about  spilling  salad  all  over  the  night 
watchman." 

Then  there  was  a  scene  of  wild  commotion. 


SOPHOMORE  125 

Shouts  and  laughter  drowned  out  Bob's  angry 
protests,  until  in  despair  she  turned  her  atten- 
tion to  Babbie,  who  took  refuge  on  the  fire- 
escape  and  refused  to  come  further  in  than 
the  window-seat  even  when  order  was  partially 
restored. 

"  Girls,"  shouted  Katherine  Kittredge,  as 
soon  as  she  could  make  herself  heard,  "  let's 
drink  to  the  success  of  Bob's  bet  I  " 

There  were  clamorous  demands  for  hot 
coffee,  and  then  the  toast  was  drunk  standing, 
amid  riotous  enthusiasm. 

"  Speech  !  "  called  somebody. 

"  Speech  !     Speech  !  "  chorused  everybody. 

"  I  never  bet  any  such  thing,"  responded 
Bob,  sulkily.  "  You  all  know  I  didn't — and 
if  I  did,  it  was  in  fun." 

"  Never  mind,  Bob,"  said  Nita,  consolingly. 
"  We  won't  tell  any  of  the  Dramatic  Club 
girls  about  it.  We're  all  sophomores  here, 
but  Madeline  Ayres,  and  she's  as  good  as  a 
sophomore ;  so  don't  worry.  You  can  trust 


us." 


"  What  I  object  to,"  put  in  Katherine  Kit- 
tredge, solemnly,  "  is  the  principle  of  the  thing. 
It's  not  true  sport  to  bet  on  a  certainty,  Bob. 


126        BErrr 

You  know  that  you're  sure  to  go  in  to-night 
and  it's  a  mean  trick  to  deprive  Babbie  of  her 
hard-won  earnings." 

This  sally  was  greeted  with  shrieks  of 
laughter,  for  it  was  a  standing  joke  with  19 — 
that  Babbie  was  supposed  by  her  adoring  mother 
to  be  keeping  a  French  maid  at  Harding. 
In  October  of  her  freshman  year  she  had 
packed  the  maid  off  to  New  York  and  en- 
gaged Emily  Davis  to  do  her  mending.  But 
the  maid's  board  and  wages  were  paid  unques- 
tioningly  by  her  mother,  who  lamented  every 
vacation  that  she  could  get  no  such  excellent 
seamstresses  as  her  daughter  was  always  able 
to  find  at  Harding.  Meanwhile  Babbie  rented 
a  riding  horse  by  the  term,  reveled  in  din- 
ners at  Cuyler's,  and  stilled  her  conscience 
with  the  thought  that  Emily  Davis  needed  the 
money  more  than  any  maid. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Madeline  Ayres,  when  the 
tumult  had  subsided  again,  "  that  you'd  ex- 
plain something  to  a  poor,  benighted  little 
freshman.  There's  just  one  thing  about  Hard- 
ing that  I  don't  understand.  Why  should 
Bob  mind  having  you  know  that  she  hopes 
she's  going  into  the  Dramatic  Club?  " 


SOPHOMORE  127 

"  Suppose  she  doesn't  go  ? "  suggested 
Christy.  "  Of  course  there's  always  a  chance 
that  she  won't." 

"  Seems  so  nervy,  anyhow,"  muttered  Bob, 
who  was  still  in  the  sulks. 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  persisted  Madeline. 
"  When  you  all  say  that  she's  perfectly  certain 
to  go  in.  But  in  general,  I  mean,  why  will 
you  never  admit  that  you  want  a  certain 
thing,  or  hope  to  get  a  certain  thing?  " 

"  It  is  funny,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Rachel.  "  Wild 
horses  couldn't  drag  it  out  of  any  junior  that 
she  hopes  for  a  place  on  the  '  Argus '  board,  or 
the  Senior  Play  committee." 

"  Nor  out  of  any  sophomore  that  she  hopes 
to  make  a  society,"  added  Christy  Mason. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Babbie,  "  that  it's  because 
nothing  is  competitive  here.  You  just  take 
what  people  think  you  ought  to  have.  You 
stand  or  fall  by  public  opinion,  and  of  course 
you  are  never  sure  how  it  will  gauge  you." 

"  College  men  aren't  that  way,"  said  Kath- 
erine.  "  They  talk  about  such  things,  and 
discuss  their  chances  and  agree  to  help  one  an- 
other along  where  they  can.  And  if  they  lose 
they  never  seem  to  care  ;  they  joke  about  it." 


128  BETTT   WALES 

"  Bit  we  never  admit  we've  lost,  because  we 
never  admit  we  were  trying  for  anything," 
put  in  Nita. 

"  I  like  the  men's  way  best  then,"  said 
Madeline  decidedly. 

"  Let's  try  it,"  suggested  Christy.  "  Girls, 
who  of  us  here  do  you  think  will  make  Dra- 
matic Club  in  the  first  two  elections  ?  " 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  then  a  gen- 
eral laugh. 

"  It  won't  work,  you  see,"  said  Christy. 
"  Well,  of  those  who  aren't  here,  Marion  Lustig 
will  go  in  to-night  of  course, — she's  our  bright 
particular  literary  star.  And  what  do  you 
think  about  Eleanor  Watson  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  she  be  more  likely  to  go  into  the 
Clio  Club  next  week  ?  "  asked  Nita  Reese. 

"  Oh,  no,"  objected  Christy.  "  Didn't  you 
know  that  Beatrice  Egerton  is  rushing  her  ? 
And  she's  the  president  of  the  Dramatic 
Club." 

"  I  don't  care,"  insisted  Nita.  "  I  think 
Eleanor  Watson  is  more  the  Clio  Club 
kind." 

"  That's  another  thing  I  want  to  know 
about,"  broke  in  Madeline  Ayres.  "  What  is 


SOPHOMORE  129 

the  Clio  Club  kind  ?  You  say  the  Dramatic 
Club  isn't  particularly  dramatic  nowadays,  but 
just  amusing  and  literary,  and  the  Clio  Club 
is  the  same.  Why  aren't  the  members  the 
same  sort  too?  " 

"  They're  not,  exactly,"  answered  Christy. 
"  I  can't  describe  the  difference,  but  you'll  no- 
tice it  by  the  time  you're  a  sophomore.  The 
Clio  girls — oh,  they  have  more  executive  abil- 
ity. They're  the  kind  that  know  how  to  run 
things — all-around,  capable,  splendid  girls. 
The  Dramatic  Club  is  more  for  the  stunty, 
talented,  artistic  sort." 

"  But  Dorothy  King  is  vice-president  of  the 
Dramatic  Club,"  objected  Betty. 

"  She's  the  exception." 

"  Well,  I  still  think,"  insisted  Christy,  "  that 
which  society  a  girl  goes  into  simply  depends 
on  where  her  friends  are.  Both  societies  want 
executive  ability,  and  they  both  want  people 
who  can  write  and  act  and  sing  and  do  parlor 
stunts.  I  don't  know  Eleanor  Watson  very 
well,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  after  her  story  in 
the  '  Argus '  the  Dramatic  Club  will  be  afraid 
of  losing  her  to  Clio,  and  so  they'll  take  her 
to-night." 


130 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  said  Betty  Wales  under 
her  breath  to  Madeline. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  told  Helen  all 
about  the  spread. 

"  It  was  so  exciting,"  she  began. 

"  How  can  a  spread  be  exciting  ?  "  demanded 
Helen,  sceptically. 

"  Oh,  in  lots  of  ways,"  responded  Betty. 
"  There's  excitement  about  whether  the  fudge 
will  be  done  in  time,  and  whether  it  will  be 
good,  and  who's  going  to  be  there,  and  how 
much  of  a  box  it  is.  But  the  most  excite- 
ment to-night  was  about  society  elections." 

"Were  they  to-night?" 

"  Dramatic  Club's  was.  It  has  first  choice 
of  the  sophomores  this  year,  you  know,  and 
Clio  Club  has  second ;  and  we  were  guessing 
who  would  go  in  to-night  among  the  first 
four." 

"  Well,  you  know  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Know  ?  I  should  think  not,"  said  Betty 
impressively.  "  Helen  Chase  Adams,  haven't 
you  noticed  that  society  elections  aren't  an- 
nounced till  the  next  Monday  morning? 
Don't  you  remember  last  year  how  all  that 
crowd  of  girls  came  up  to  Mrs.  Chapin's  after 


SOPHOMORE  131 

Mary  Brooks,  and  she'd  gone  down-town  to 
breakfast  with  Roberta,  and  was  going  to  cut 
chapel ;  and  how  we  all  rushed  down  after 
her,  and  how  I  stayed  at  the  Main  Street  cor- 
ner, in  case  she'd  left  Cuyler's  before  the  girls 
got  there  and  come  up  the  back  way  ?  And 
she  did  just  that,  and  what  a  time  I  had  keep- 
ing her  till  the  girls  got  back  !  "  Betty  laughed 
heartily  at  the  recollection. 

"  I  didn't  go  down,  but  I  do  remember 
about  it,"  admitted  Helen.  "  Do  they  always 
do  it  that  way  ?  " 

"  Always,  only  the  four  girls  who  go  into 
each  society  first — they  elect  only  four  at  a 
time,  you  know — have  about  sixty  times  as 
much  fuss  made  over  them  as  the  ones  who  go 
in  later." 

"  Then  you'd  better  put  your  part  of  the 
room  in  order  to-morrow,"  said  Helen  signifi- 
cantly, glancing  at  the  disorderly  pile  of 
books  and  papers  on  Betty's  desk,  and  at  the 
pictures  which  she  had  brought  back  at 
Christmas  time  and  which  still  lay  on  the 
floor  beside  her  couch,  waiting  for  her  to  find 
time  to  hang  them. 

Betty's  glance  followed  Helen's  to  the  desk 


132 

and  down  to  the  floor.  "  I'll  hang  those 
pictures  this  minute,"  she  said,  jumping  up 
and  rummaging  energetically  through  her 
desk  drawer.  "  That  is,  if  I  can  borrow  some 
picture  wire,"  she  added.  "  I  remember  now 
that  mine  is  all  gone.  That's  why  I've  left 
them  on  the  floor  so  long.  But  somebody 
must  have  some." 

At  the  door  she  turned  back  suddenly. 
"  But,  Helen,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  fixing  up 
for  society  elections.  I  shan't  go  in  this  time 
— not  for  a  long  while,  if  I  ever  do.  And 
Helen — you  know  the  girls  never  talk  about 
going  in  themselves." 

"  All  right,"  said  Helen  submissively. 
"  Who  do  you  think  was  taken  in  to-night?  " 

"  Oh,  the  girls  with  one  big  talent.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  last  year  that  every  Harding  girl 
has  to  find  out  her  one  talent  before  she  can 
amount  to  anything  ?  We  think  Bob  will  go 
in  ;  she  can  do  such  beautiful  pantomimes,  and 
she's  such  a  prod,  and  such  jolly  fun  too. 
Then  Marion  Lustig  because  of  her  writing. 
Writing  counts  more  than  anything  else,  and 
so  I'm  hoping  for  Eleanor  Watson.  I  can't 
even  guess  who  the  fourth  one  will  be." 


SOPHOMORE  133 

All  day  Sunday  Mary  Brooks  and  the  other 
Dramatic  Club  juniors  and  seniors  in  the 
Belden  House  went  about  wearing  a  tantaliz- 
ing, don't-you-wish-you-knew  air,  and  after 
dinner  when  the  whole  house  assembled  in 
the  parlors  as  usual  for  coffee  and  music,  they 
gathered  in  mysterious  little  groups,  which 
instantly  dissolved  at  the  approach  of  curious 
sophomores. 

It  seemed  to  Betty  and  Nita,  interested  on 
account  of  Eleanor  and  Bob,  that  Monday 
morning  would  never  come.  But  it  did  dawn 
at  last,  and  after  an  unconscionable  delay — 
for  the  announcement  committee  went  up  to 
Marion  Lustig's  first,  and  she  boarded  away 
off  on  the  edge  of  the  meadows,  and  then  to 
Emily  Davis's,  which  was  half  a  mile  from  the 
college  in  quite  another  direction — the  com- 
mittee and  its  escort  finally  reached  the 
campus,  and,  gaining  recruits  at  every  step, 
made  its  picturesque  and  musical  way  to  the 
Westcott  House  after  Bob.  At  this  point 
Betty  and  Nita  joined  it,  and  they  had  the  ex- 
quisite pleasure  of  seeing  Bob  blush  so  red 
that  there  was  no  need  for  a  candle  this  time, 
then  turn  very  white,  and  clinging  to  the 


134        BErrr  WALES 

chairman's  arm  insist  that  there  must  be  some 
blunder — it  couldn't  be  she  that  they  wanted. 
Finally,  assured  that  the  honor  had  indeed 
fallen  to  her,  she  broke  into  a  war-whoop 
which  shook  the  house  to  its  foundation  and 
brought  the  matron  on  the  run  to  her  door. 

"  Now  Mrs.  Alison,  aren't  you  proud  of 
your  holy  terror  ?"  cried  Bob  in  tremulous, 
happy  tones,  holding  out  her  tie  with  the 
Dramatic  Club  pin  on  it.  And  in  spite  of  the 
lateness  of  the  hour  and  the  wild  desire  of  the 
procession  to  know  where  it  was  going  next, 
Mrs.  Alison's  delight  over  the  honor  done  her 
"  holy  terror  "  was  well  worth  waiting  to  see. 

And  then — Betty  squeezed  Nita's  hand  till 
it  ached.  No — yes — they  were  going  to  the 
Hilton !  They  weren't  stopping  on  the 
second  floor.  Then  it  must — oh,  it  must  be 
Eleanor  !  And  it  was. 

Margaret  Payson  was  chairman  of  the  an- 
nouncement committee,  but  almost  before  she 
could  give  Eleanor  her  note  of  invitation  to 
the  society  Beatrice  Egerton  had  pressed  for- 
ward and  fastened  her  pin  on  Eleanor's  shirt- 
waist. 

After  seeing  Bob's  frenzied  excitement  it 


SOPHOMORE  135 

was  amusing  to  watch  Eleanor  Watson.  She 
was  perfectly  composed.  "  Just  as  if  she'd 
been  expecting  it,"  said  little  Alice  Waite, 
who  had  joined  the  procession  as  it  passed 
through  her  corridor.  "  But  she  was  pleased 
— I  never  saw  her  so  pleased  before — and 
didn't  it  make  her  look  lovely  !  " 

As  soon  as  the  pin  was  safely  fastened  and 
the  note  read,  there  was  another  tumult  of 
congratulations.  Then  Beatrice  Egerton  took 
off  the  great  bunch  of  violets  she  was  wearing, 
— "just  till  I  could  bring  them  to  you,"  she  ex- 
plained,— and  carried  Eleanor  off  to  sit  among 
the  seniors  at  chapel.  Just  opposite  them 
was  Emily  Davis,  with  Dorothy  King.  Emily 
was  also  wearing  violets,  and  her  plain  face 
was  almost  pretty,  it  was  so  full  of  happiness. 

"  Just  to  think,"  she  whispered  to  Dorothy, 
"  that  you  picked  out  me,  when  you  could 
have  any  one  in  19 — .  I  can't  realize  it ! " 
She  glanced  at  her  shabby  coat,  made  over 
from  Babe's  discarded  golf  cape,  and  then  at 
Eleanor  Watson's  irreproachable  blue  walk- 
ing suit  and  braided  toque  to  match.  "  Here 
all  girls  are  really  created  free  and  equal, 
aren't  they,  Miss  King?" 


136        BErrr  WALES 

"  Of  course.  Don't  be  silly,"  said  Dorothy, 
with  a  queer  little  catch  in  her  voice.  Doro- 
thy King  was  not  at  all  sentimental,  but  the 
splendidly  democratic  spirit  of  her  college 
sometimes  brought  a  lump  into  her  throat. 

Only  once  that  morning  did  the  radiant 
smiles  leave  Eleanor  Watson's  lovely  face. 
That  was  when  Katherine  Kittredge,  on  the 
way  out  of  chapel,  rallied  her  about  her 
famous  theme. 

"  Now  aren't  you  glad  Miss  Raymond  got 
up  early  that  morning  ?  "  she  said. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  any  one  had  re- 
ferred to  the  story  in  connection  with  her 
election  to  the  Dramatic  Club.  Eleanor 
frowned  and  turned  to  Beatrice  Egerton,  who 
was  standing  close  beside  her. 

"  Bess,"  she  said,  pouting,  "  did  you  run  me 
in  because  of  that  footless  little  story  ?  Wasn't 
it  for  myself  that  you  wanted  me  ?  Do  say 
that  it  was." 

Miss  Egerton  smiled  her  lazy,  enigmatical 
smile,  which  her  admirers  considered  the 
secret  of  her  tremendous  popularity.  "  Of 
course  we  wanted  you  for  yourself,"  she  said, 
"  but  that  footless  little  story,  as  you  call  it,  is 


SOPHOMORE  137 

a  rather  important  asset.  We  expect  you  to 
keep  on  writing  footless  little  stories,  remem- 
ber." 

"  How  tiresome ! "  said  Eleanor,  with  a 
shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "  That's  the  bother 
of  doing  anything  up  here.  What  you  do 
once,  you  are  expected  to  repeat  indefinitely. 
Now  my  method  is  to  do  one  thing  as  well  as 
I  can,  and  then  go  on  to  something  else." 

"  Just  do  them  all  as  well  as  you  did  the 
story,  and  we  shan't  complain,"  said  Miss 
Egerton.  "  And  now,  Eleanor,  I  must  be  off 
to  Psychology  One.  Do  you  suppose  any- 
body will  give  a  dinner  for  you  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Egerton,"  called  Jean  Eastman, 
appearing  around  the  corner.  "  Kate  and  I 
are  giving  one,  and  we  want  you  to  come,  of 
course.  And  Eleanor,"  she  went  on,  after 
Miss  Egerton  had  left  them,  "  we  want  you  to 
answer  to  a  toast — '  My  Story  and  How  I 
Wrote  It.'  Now  be  just  as  clever  and  amus- 
ing as  you  can.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  spring 
it  on  you " 

"  Jean,"  Eleanor  broke  in  suddenly,  "  I 
won't  answer  to  anything  of  the  sort.  And 
if  you  have  that  story  mentioned — even  men- 


138  BETTY    WALES 

tioned,  remember — to-night,  I  shall  get  up  and 
leave.  Give  me  your  word  that  I  shan't  hear 
of  it  in  any  way, — or  give  up  the  dinner." 

Jean  stared  in  astonishment.  "  Why  cer- 
tainly, Eleanor,"  she  said,  "  but  I  thought  you 
had  given  up  being  so  absurd.  Is  there  any 
one  in  particular  that  you  want  asked  to- 
night?" 

"  Dora  Carlson,"  flashed  Eleanor,  and  hur- 
ried oif,  murmuring  something  about  a  nine 
o'clock  recitation  at  the  other  end  of  the  main 
building. 

Jean  looked  after  her  for  a  moment,  her 
mouth  twisted  into  a  funny  grimace,  and  then 
pursued  her  way  to  the  college  library.  At  the 
door  she  met  Betty  Wales.  "  Your  face  is 
one  big  smile,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course,"  laughed  Betty.  "  Isn't  it  per- 
fectly splendid  about  Eleanor  and  Emily  ?  " 

Jean  grinned  cheerfully.  "  Considering  last 
year  I  thought  it  was  more  or  less  amusing  to 
see  the  two  of  them  sitting  up  there  together 
on  the  front  row  at  chapel.  I  wonder  if  Elea- 
nor remembers  any  of  the  remarks  she  used 
to  let  drop  about  the  genius  of  19 — .  See 
here,  Betty,"  she  added  quickly,  "  have  you 


SOPHOMORE  139 

any  idea  why  Eleanor  is  so  touchy  about  that 
story?  She  won't  even  have  it  toasted  to- 
night at  the  supper." 

"  No,"  said  Betty.  <f  I  asked  her,  but  she 
didn't  tell  me  anything  except  that  she  didn't 
care  for  it." 

"  Well,  most  people  would  begin  to  care  for 
it  a  little,  after  it  had  pulled  them  into  the 
Dramatic  Club  among  the  first  four,"  said 
Jean,  opening  the  library  door  and  tiptoeing 
over  to  the  anthropological  alcove.  There 
she  spent  the  hour,  busily  engaged  in  making 
out  a  new  list  of  toasts,  that  should  avoid  all 
mention  of  the  objectionable  story. 

"  But  they  must  have  some  point,"  reflected 
Jean,  sadly,  as  she  ran  her  pen  through  "  My 
Story  and  How  I  Wrote  It,"  and  "The  Re- 
wards of  Literature  "  and  "  Our  Rising  Young 
Novelist,"  which  she  had  intended  for  herself 
and  Kate  Denise. 

"  Bother  Eleanor's  tantrums  !  "  muttered 
Jean,  as  the  ten  o'clock  gong  rang,  and  she 
picked  up  her  books  and  hurried  off  to  recite 
a  French  lesson  that,  because  of  Eleanor's 
"  tantrums,"  she  had  not  learned. 

And  for  Betty  Wales  Eleanor's  election  to 


the  Dramatic  Club  also  brought  disappoint^ 
merit.  She  had  hoped  that  once  Eleanor's 
ambition  was  gratified  and  all  her  hard  work 
and  careful  planning  rewarded,  the  anxious 
lines  would  leave  her  face  and  the  sweeter, 
softer  expression  that  she  had  worn  in  Sep- 
tember would  come  back.  But  though  Elea- 
nor professed  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the 
election,  it  did  not  seem  to  make  her  any 
less  haughty  or  capricious,  or  any  better  con- 
tent with  life.  She  still  snubbed  or  patron- 
ized her  train  of  adoring  freshmen  by  turns, 
according  to  her  mood.  She  was  still  a  de- 
voted admirer  of  Beatrice  Egerton,  and  a 
member  of  her  very  exclusive  set.  She  re- 
ceived Betty's  congratulations  just  as  cordially 
as  she  had  every  one's  else, — it  was  one  of 
Beatrice's  principles  to  treat  everybody  well 
"  up  to  a  certain  point," — but  she  did  not 
come  to  the  third  floor  of  the  Belden  House 
except  on  errands. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   COMPLICATIONS   OF   LIFE 

BY  the  middle  of  February  basket-ball  prac- 
tice was  in  full  swing  again.  The  class  teams 
had  not  yet  been  chosen,  but  every  Wednes- 
day and  Saturday  afternoon  19 — 's  last  year's 
"  regulars  "  and  "  subs  "  met  in  the  gymnasium 
to  play  exciting  matches.  Of  course  there 
were  some  changes  in  the  make-up  of  the 
teams.  Two  of  the  "  sub "  centres  and  a 
"  regular  "  home  had  left  college ;  the  guard 
who  sprained  her  ankle  in  the  great  game  of 
the  year  before  and  whose  place  Katherine 
Kittredge  had  taken  in  the  second  half,  was 
not  allowed  to  risk  another  such  injury  ;  and 
one  or  two  other  players  had  lost  interest  in 
basket-ball  and  were  devoting  their  energies 
to  something  else.  So  there  was  a  chance  for 
outsiders,  and  Betty  Wales,  who  had  almost 
"  made  "  the  freshman  sub- team,  was  one  of 
the  new  girls  invited  to  play  in  the  practice 
matches. 

141 


142        BErrr  WALES 

Helen  Adams  had  cut  basket-ball  all  her 
freshman  year,  because  Miss  Andrews  never 
called  the  roll  on  basket-ball  days.  Now  she 
could  not  get  enough  of  it,  nor  of  regular 
gym.  On  Wednesday  and  Saturday  after- 
noons there  were  no  classes,  so  she  used  to 
put  on  her  gym.  suit  and  go  over  to  watch  the 
teams.  And  if  some  player  failed  to  appear 
or  was  late  in  arriving,  T.  Reed  or  Betty 
would  suggest  calling  Helen  down  to  take 
the  absentee's  place.  Helen  was  painfully 
awkward  and  not  very  strong,  but  she  had 
acquired  T.  Reed's  habit  of  slipping  under  the 
outstretched  arms  of  the  enemv  and  T.  Reed's 

«/ 

fashion  of  setting  her  teeth  and  getting  the 
ball  in  spite  of  opposition ;  and  some  of  her 
plays  were  remarkably  effective. 

"  I  believe,"  Betty  said  to  her  one  day,  as 
they  lay  side  by  side  in  a  sunny  spot  on  the 
gym.  floor,  resting  between  the  halves,  "  I  be- 
lieve, if  you'd  begun  last  year  when  the  rest 
of  us  did,  you  might  have  been  on  one  of  the 
teams  yourself." 

Helen  laughed  a  pleased  little  laugh.  "  Oh, 
no  !  "  she  said.  "  But  I  love  to  play  with  you 
sometimes,  and  I  love  to  watch  Theresa." 


SOPHOMORE  143 

"  Isn't  she  a  wonder  ?  "  said  Betty  dreamily. 
"  Do  you  remember  that  game,  Helen  ? 
Wasn't  it  the  most  exciting  thing?  And  this 
year  it  will  be  our  turn  to  win.  Bob  Parker 
has  seen  the  picked  freshman  teams  play,  and 
she  thinks  they  haven't  a  chance  against  us." 

"  I  hope  you  can  be  on  the  sub-team,  Betty," 
said  Helen. 

"  And  I  hope  you  can  write  your  song  for 
19 —  to  sing  to  its  team,"  returned  Betty  gaily. 
"  You  haven't  forgotten  about  our  talk  the 
day  of  the  game,  have  you,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Helen,  quickly.  Not  for 
worlds  would  she  have  let  Betty  know  how 
much  she  counted  on  that  song.  She  had 
written  another  little  verse  for  her  theme  class, 
and  that  very  morning  it  had  come  back  with 
"  Good  work — charming  lilt,"  scrawled  across 
the  margin.  So  Helen  had  high  hopes  for  the 
song. 

Just  then  the  door  of  the  gym.  opened,  and 
Lucy  Merrifield,  the  president  of  19 — ,  came 
in. 

"  Hello,  Lucy,"  chorused  the  group  of 
sprawling  figures  nearest  the  door. 

"  You're  just  in  time  to  see  us  do  up  the 


144        BErrr  WALES 

regular  team,"  called  Elizabeth  West,  who 
captained  the  "  subs." 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Lucy,  "  but  I  can't 
stay  to  see  you  do  any  such  unbecoming  thing. 
I  came  on  an  errand  to  Betty  Wales.  Isn't 
she  here?  " 

"  Here  I  am,"  called  Betty,  scrambling  up- 
right and  brushing  the  hair  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  you've  been  ap- 
pointed to  the  Students'  Commission,  to  serve 
until  Christy  Mason  gets  back,"  explained 
Lucy. 

"Till  Christy  gets  back?"  repeated  Betty 
in  bewilderment. 

"  Yes,  she's  been  called  home  very  suddenly. 
Her  mother  is  ill,  and  Christy  is  going  to  keep 
house  and  see  to  the  children.  She'll  be  away 
a  month  anyhow  and  perhaps  all  this  term. 
And  as  there  are  a  lot  of  important  matters 
coming  up  just  now,  we  decided  that  we  would 
better  appoint  a  substitute  on  the  commission." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  be  much  help,"  began 
Betty,  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  declared  Lucy.  "  Come 
to  the  meeting  to-morrow  at  two,  and  we'll 
give  you  plenty  to  help  about." 


SOPHOMORE  145 

"  Time's  up,"  called  the  captain  of  the 
regulars,  and  Lucy  ran  for  the  door,  leaving 
Betty  in  a  state  of  pleased  excitement.  Dor- 
othy King  was  president  of  her  class  this  year, 
and  therefore  also  president  of  the  Students' 
Commission.  Marion  Lawrence  was  a  repre- 
sentative from  the  junior  class.  To  be  even  a 
temporary  member  of  so  august  an  assembly 
seemed  to  Betty  a  very  great  privilege.  She 
was  so  busy  wondering  who  had  chosen  her, — 
whether  Lucy  or  the  whole  commission, — and 
what  to-morrow's  meeting  would  be  like,  that 
she  deliberately  threw  the  ball  twice  toward 
the  wrong  basket  and  never  discovered  her 
mistake  until  Elizabeth  West  begged  her 
please  to  "  come  to  "  and  help  her  own  side  a 
little  just  for  variety. 

On  the  way  home  Betty  met  Miss  Ferris. 
"  Come  and  have  tea  with  me,  little  girl/'  she 
said. 

"  Could  I,  like  this  ?  "  asked  Betty  wistfully, 
pulling  back  her  rain-coat  to  show  her  gym.  suit 
and  the  tightly  braided  pig-tails  tucked  inside. 

Miss  Ferris  laughed.  "  I  shouldn't  mind, 
but  some  one  else  might  drop  in.  It  takes  me 
ten  minutes  to  make  tea.  Now  run  !  " 


146  BETTT   WALES 

Exactly  nine  minutes  and  a  half  later, 
Betty,  looking  very  slender  and  stately  in  a 
clinging  blue  gown  and  a  big  plumed  hat,  her 
cheeks  pink  with  excitement  and  her  hair 
blown  into  fascinating  ringlets  from  her  brisk 
run  across  the  campus,  knocked  timidly  on 
Miss  Ferris's  door. 

"Come  in,"  called  Miss  Ferris.  "You're 
early.  The  water  hasn't  boiled." 

"  It  used  to  take  me  half  an  hour  to  dress, 
at  the  very  fastest,"  said  Betty,  slipping  into  a 
low  chair  by  the  fire,  where  she  could  watch 
Miss  Ferris  making  tea  in  a  fat  little  silver 
pot,  and  pouring  it  into  cups  so  thin  and  beau- 
tiful that  Betty  hardly  dared  touch  hers,  and 
breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  when  it  was 
safely  emptied  and  out  of  her  hands. 

Just  as  she  was  leaving,  she  told  Miss  Ferris 
about  her  appointment  to  the  Students'  Com- 
mission. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  "  that  won't  be 
new  work  for  you.  You  were  an  ex-officio 
member  last  year." 

Betty  looked  puzzled. 

"  What  you  did  for  Miss  Watson  was  Stu- 
dents' Commission  work,"  explained  Miss 


SOPHOMORE  147 

Ferris.  "And  judging  by  the  position  Miss 
Watson  seems  to  be  taking  this  year,  I  should 
call  it  very  good  work  indeed." 

"  But  you  did  it,  not  I,"  protested  Betty. 

"  I  did  my  part,  you  did  yours,"  corrected 
Miss  Ferris.  "  To  be  successful  nowadays, 
you  know,  you  must  not  only  work  yourself, 
but  you  must  get  other  people  to  work  for 
you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty,  vaguely.  Then  she 
laughed.  "  I'm  afraid  that  I  do  the  second 
more  than  the  first,  Miss  Ferris.  My  room- 
mate thinks  that  I  get  a  great  deal  too  much 
out  of  other  people.  And  when  I  was  at 
home  Nan  used  to  tell  me  to  be  more  inde- 
pendent and  see  how  I  could  get  along  if  I 
were  left  on  a  desert  island." 

Miss  Ferris  smiled  across  the  fire  at  her 
dainty  little  guest.  "  The  best  things  in  the 
world, — which  fortunately  isn't  a  desert 
island, — come  about  by  cooperation,"  she 
said.  "  Be  independent ;  think  for  yourself, 
of  course,  but  get  all  the  help  you  can  from 
other  people  in  carrying  out  your  thoughts." 

The  dinner-bell  began  to  jangle  noisily  in 
the  hall  and  Betty  rose  hastily.  "  I've  stayed 


148  BETTT   WALES 

too  long,"  she  said,  "  but  I  always  do  that 
when  I  come  to  see  you.  I  shall  tell  my 
roommate  what  you  said.  Do  you  suppose  I 
shall  ever  learn  to  think  up  arguments  for 
myself  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  encour- 
agingly. "  That's  one  thing  you're  here  for 
— to  learn  to  argue  and  to  dress  in  a  hurry 
and  to  work  on  Students'  Commissions. 
You'll  master  them  all  in  time.  Good-bye." 

When  Betty  got  back  to  the  Belden  House 
the  bell  had  rung  there  too,  and  as  the  girls 
stood  about  in  the  halls  and  parlors  waiting 
for  Mrs.  Cass,  the  matron,  to  lead  them  in  to 
dinner,  they  were  all  discussing  what  Mary 
Brooks  could  mean  by  a  "  hair-raising." 

"  It  sounds  like  a  house-raising,"  said  a 
girl  from  Nebraska.  "  I  mean  the  sort  of 
thing  they  have  away  out  west,  where  laborers 
are  scarce  and  the  whole  town  turns  out  to 
help  a  man  get  up  the  timbers  of  his  house." 

"  But  there's  no  sense  to  that  kind  of  a 
hair-raising,"  objected  the  Nebraskan's  room- 
mate, who  was  from  Boston.  "  I  think  that 
Mary  has  invented  a  hair  tonic  and  is  going 
to  try  it  on  us  before  she  has  it  patented." 


SOPHOMORE  149 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  said  Madeline  Ayres, 
patting  her  diminutive  twist  of  hair  tenderly. 

"  Why,  it's  some  kind  of  party  she's  giving 
for  her  mother,"  announced  a  stately  senior, 
authoritatively. 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  tells  what  it  is, 
though,"  said  Betty.  "  Am  I  invited  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  explained  Helen  Adams.  "  Mary 
came  in  while  you  were  out  and  asked  us." 

"  But  she  hasn't  said  anything  about  ex- 
pecting her  mother." 

At  this  everybody  laughed  and  Marion 
Lawrence  explained  that  Mary,  being  a  very 
busy  person,  had  a  habit  of  putting  away  her 
letters  unopened,  until  she  found  time  to  read 
them. 

"  And  somehow  she  thought  this  was  a 
book-bill  from  Longstreet's — you  know  how 
near-sighted  she  is — so  she  stuck  it  into  her 
desk  until  she  got  her  next  month's  allow- 
ance. But  to-day  she  found  some  money  that 
she'd  put  in  her  collar-case  for  safe-keeping 
and  forgotten  about ;  so  she  got  out  the  bill  to 
pay  it,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  a  letter  from 
her  mother,  saying  she  was  coming  up  to- 
night. Mary  wouldn't  have  her  know  for 


BErrr 

anything,  so  she  decided  to  give  a  hair-raising 
to-night,  as  if  she'd  planned  for  it  days  ahead." 

"  But  what  is  it?  "  demanded  Betty. 

If  Miss  Lawrence  was  in  Mary's  confidence 
she  had  no  intention  of  betraying  it ;  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  eight 
o'clock,  the  hour  which  Mary  had  mentioned 
in  her  invitations.  Promptly  on  the  moment 
all  those  bidden  to  the  hair-raising  made  a 
rush  for  Mary's  room. 

"  She  hasn't  come  back  from  taking  dinner 
with  her  mother,"  said  Helen.  "  Her  transom 
is  dark." 

But  "  come  in,  children,"  called  Mary,  so- 
ciably, and  opening  the  door  just  wide  enough 
to  admit  one  girl  at  a  time  she  disclosed  a 
room  absolutely  dark  save  for  a  gleam  of  light 
from  a  Turkish  lantern  in  one  corner. 

"  Goodness ! "  cried  Betty,  who  went  in 
first.  "  What  am  I  running  into  ?  Oh,  it's  a 
skeleton." 

"  I'm  all  mixed  up  with  a  snake,"  added 
Katherine.  "  I  feel  my  hair  rising  already." 

"  Girls,  I  want  you  to  meet  my  mother," 
said  Mary,  briskly. 

"  Here  I  am,"  called  a  sweet  voice  from  the 


SOPHOMORE  151 

shadows.  "  Wouldn't  you  better  turn  on  the 
lights  for  a  moment,  daughter?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  retorted  Mary,  firmly. 
"  They're  nothing  to  see,  dear,  I  assure  you, 
but  if  you  insist  on  seeing  them  you  can  all 
go  across  to  Laurie's  room  and  come  back 
after  you've  had  a  general  inspection." 

So  everybody  filed  over  to  Marion  Law- 
rence's room,  where  it  was  discovered  that 
Mary's  mother  was,  as  Betty  Wales  put  it,  "  a 
perfect  little  darling."  She  was  small,  like 
Mary,  and  she  looked  so  young  that  Kather- 
ine  gravely  asked  Mary  if  she  was  quite  sure 
she  wasn't  palming  off  a  sister  on  them  in- 
stead of  a  mother.  She  entered  into  all  the 
absurdities  of  the  hair-raising,  which  proved 
to  be  only  a  particularly  diverting  sort  of 
ghost  party,  with  as  much  zest  as  any  of  the 
girls,  and  her  ghost  stories  were  the  feature 
of  the  evening. 

"  You  see,  dear,"  explained  Mary,  when 
the  lights  were  finally  turned  on  and  the 
hair-raising  had  resolved  itself  into  a  spread, 
"  you  see  I  had  a  hair-raising  because  you  tell 
ghost  stories  so  well.  Why,  ever  since  I  read 
your  letter  I've  been  planning  how  I  should 


152 

show  you  off Oh,  mother,  it's  too  good  to 

keep."  And  Mary  regaled  her  mother  with 
the  story  of  the  neglected  book-bill. 

"  Speaking  of  lost  letters,"  said  Marion 
Lawrence,  "  there's  a  letter  for  Frances  West 
over  on  the  zoology  bulletin  board  in  Science 
Hall.  It's  been  there  for  two  weeks." 

"  What  a  funny  place  for  it !  "  said  Mary. 
"  Frances  never  as  much  as  sticks  her  head  in- 
side Science  Hall.  She  thinks  it's  wrong  to 
cut  up  frogs  and  angle-worms.  How  did  it 
get  there,  Laurie  ?  " 

"  Postman  dropped  it,  probably,  and  some- 
body who  didn't  know  any  better  stuck  it  up 
there — the  janitor,  maybe." 

11  Perhaps  Frances  dropped  it  herself,"  sug- 
gested Madeline  Ayres. 

Marion  shook  her  head.  "  Anyhow  if  she 
did,  she  hasn't  read  it.  I  noticed  that  it 
hadn't  been  opened." 

"  Perhaps  it's  a  letter  like  Mary's,  saying 
that  her  mother  is  coming,"  suggested  Helen 
Adams. 

"  Guess  again.  It  can't  be  that,  because  her 
mother  wouldn't  direct  a  letter  to  the  editor- 
in-chief  of  the  '  Argus.' ' 


SOPHOMORE  153 

*  Hear  that,  Dottie,"  called  Mary  Brooks  to 
Dorothy  King,  who  was  sitting  on  the  divan 
below  the  Turkish  lantern,  talking  busily 
with  Mrs.  Brooks.  "  There's  a  letter  for  your 
chief  over  on  the  zoology  bulletin  board. 
You'd  better  stop  in  and  get  it  for  her." 

"  Isn't  it  funny,"  said  Rachel  Morrison, 
"  that,  as  well  as  Frances  West  is  known  in 
college  and  as  many  juniors  and  seniors  as 
look  at  that  bulletin  board,  nobody  has 
thought  to  take  her  the  letter." 

"  Why  didn't  you  take  it  to  her,  Laurie?  " 
asked  Mary  severely. 

"  Oh,  because  I  wanted  to  see  how  long  it 
would  stop  there  if  I  didn't  take  it,"  returned 
Marion  easily.  "  I'm  writing  a  theme  on 
'  What's  everybody's  business  is  nobody's 
business,'  and  I  want  to  get  the  psychology 
right.  Oh,  Mrs.  Brooks,"  she  called,  getting 
up  and  going  over  to  the  divan,  •'  did  you 
know  that  Mary  had  set  a  fashion  up  here  ? 
Ever  since  her  '  Rumor  '  story,  we're  all  rack- 
ing our  brains  to  see  if  we  can't  get  up  some 
psychological  experiments  that  will  make 
Professor  Hinsdale  think  we're  clever  too." 

"  And   most   of    you,"   said   Mary   loftily, 


154        BErrr  WALES 

"just  succeed  in  making  your  friends  uncoil 
fortable.  I  hope  Frances'  letter  won't  upset 
her  the  way  mine  did." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  it  isn't  a  hair-raiser,"  said 
Marion  easily.  "  It's  probably  a  bill  for 
printer's  ink  or  paper,  or  whatever  they  buy 
for  the  '  Argus.'  You  get  it  to-morrow, 
Dottie,  and  then  you  can  tell  us  what  is  in  it." 

"  I  will,"  said  Dorothy. 

Just  as  she  spoke  the  twenty-minute-to- 
ten  bell  clanged  suggestively  in  the  corridors, 
and  the  hair-raising  came  to  an  abrupt  end. 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  much  for  hair-rais- 
ings," said  Betty,  as  she  and  Helen  made 
hasty  preparations  for  bed.  "  I  think  you 
have  enough  to  worry  about  and  be  frightened 
over,  without  getting  up  a  lot  of  extra  things 
on  purpose.  I  can  hear  that  blood-hound 
panting  under  the  window  this  very  minute. 
Isn't  Mrs.  Brooks  a  wonderful  story-teller?  " 

"Yes.  I  didn't  suppose  you  were  ever 
worried  or  frightened  over  things,"  said  Helen. 

"Well,  I  am,"  returned  Betty.  "I'm 
worrying  this  very  minute  about  my  to-mor- 
row's recitations.  I'd  planned  to  study  to- 
night, but  how  could  I  hurt  Mary's  feelings 


SOPHOMORE  155 

by  not  going  to  the  hair-raising?  I  suppose," 
went  on  Betty,  when  Helen  did  not  answer, 
"  I  suppose  you  want  to  ask  why  I  don't  sit 
up  to  study  ?  But  if  I  did  I  should  be  break- 
ing a  rule,  and  besides,"  concluded  Betty, 
yawning  prodigiously,  "  I  am  altogether  too 
sleepy  to  sit  up,  so  I  am  just  going  to  sleep 
and  forget  all  my  troubles."  And  Betty 
suited  the  action  to  the  word. 

A  few  moments  later  she  roused  herself. 
"  Life  is  just  full  of  things  to  decide,  isn't  it, 
Helen?  And  so  often  you  can't  tell  which 
one  is  best — like  my  going  to  the  hair-raising 
to-night,  or  Marion  Lawrence  and  that 
letter." 

"  I  think  she  ought  to  have  delivered  the 
letter,"  said  Helen. 

"  But  it  was  such  fun  not  to,"  objected 
Betty.  "  And  probably  it  was  only  an  adver- 
tisement. Now  I'm  really  going  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  X 

IN    THE    "  ARGUS  "    SANCTUM 

DOROTHY  KING  hurried  down  the  steps  of 
Science  Hall  and  across  the  campus  to  the 
main  building,  carrying  Frances  West's  be- 
lated letter  in  her  hand.  She  stopped  for  a 
moment  in  Miss  Stuart's  office  to  tell  her  that 
the  Students'  Commission  wanted  to  hold  a 
mass-meeting  of  the  whole  college  at  the  end 
of  the  month,  and  waited  while  Miss  Stuart, 
who  was  an  enthusiastic  supporter  of  the  com- 
mission, obligingly  hunted  up  an  available 
date  for  the  meeting,  and  promised  to  hold  it 
open  until  the  final  arrangements  could  be 
perfected.  Outside  the  office  door  Dorothy 
hesitated  and  looked  at  her  watch.  Quarter 
past  four ;  laboratory  work  was  over  for  the 
afternoon,  and  there  would  be  ten  girls  to  one 
copy  of  Ward's  "  Poets  "  in  the  library. 

"  I'll  go  up  there  this  evening,"  she  decided 
swiftly,  "  and  now  for  a  skate  before  dinner," 
and  she  swung  off  toward  the  Hilton  House 

156 


SOPHOMORE  157 

to  get  her  skates  and  her  sweater.  As  she  put 
out  her  hand  to  open  the  door,  she  suddenly 
noticed  that  she  was  still  carrying  Frances' 
letter,  and  gave  an  impatient  little  exclama- 
tion. "  All  out  of  my  way,"  she  thought,  "  so 
I  might  as  well  take  it  back  now  and  get  rid 
of  it." 

The  editorial  office  of  the  "  Argus  "  was  in 
the  Students'  Building,  over  behind  the  gym. 
As  she  went,  Dorothy  congratulated  herself 
that  it  was  this  errand,  and  not  the  one  to 
Miss  Stuart,  which  she  had  forgotten  ;  for  the 
main  building  was  twice  as  far  away.  She 
wondered  idly  whether  Frances  would  be  in 
the  "  sanctum " ;  she  often  spent  her  free 
afternoons  there,  for  the  big  building,  which 
was  used  chiefly  in  the  evening  for  club  meet- 
ings, plays,  and  other  social  and  semi-social 
functions,  was  generally  silent  and  deserted 
earlier  in  the  day ;  and  the  quiet  and  the 
view  over  Paradise  river  from  the  west  win- 
dows of  the  sanctum  appealed  to  the  poetic 
soul  of  the  chief  editor.  Dorothy,  who  was  a 
very  practical  person  herself,  had  a  vast  ad- 
miration for  Frances'  dreamy,  imaginative 
temperament,  and  enjoyed  her  work  as  busi- 


158  BETrr    WALES 

ness  manager  of  the  "  Argus  "  chiefly  because 
it  brought  her  into  close  contact  with  Frances; 
while  Frances  in  her  turn  admired  Dorothy's 
executive  ability,  and  depended  on  her  to 
soften  the  hearts  of  obdurate  printers,  stir  the 
consciences  of  careless  assistant  editors,  and  in 
short  to  stand  as  a  sort  of  buffet  between  her 
beloved  "  Argus  "  and  a  careless  world.  Doro- 
thy hoped  that  Frances  would  be  in  the  sanc- 
tum ;  it  would  be  fun  to  tell  her  about  the 
letter.  But  if  not,  all  responsibility  could  be 
fulfilled  by  dropping  it  and  a  note  of  explana- 
tion into  the  editorial  mail-box. 

But  Frances  was  there,  and  also  Beatrice 
Egerton,  who,  as  exchange  editor  of  the 
"  Argus,"  Dorothy  had  come  to  know  well  and 
to  like  for  her  quick  wit  and  her  daring, 
piquant  ways,  while  she  thoroughly  disap- 
proved of  her  worldly,  self-seeking  attitude 
toward  college  life. 

"  Hello,  Dottie,"  called  Beatrice,  when 
Dorothy  opened  the  door.  "  We  thought  you 
weren't  coming,  Frances  and  I." 

"Why  should  I  be  coming?"  inquired 
Dorothy  curiously,  tossing  the  letter  into 
Frances'  lap. 


SOPHOMORE  159 

"  Proof!  "  exclaimed  Beatrice,  with  a  funny 
little  grimace. 

Dorothy  sank  down  on  the  long  window 
seat,  which  ran  across  two  sides  of  the  sanc- 
tum, with  a  groan  and  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I 
entirely  forgot,"  she  said.  "  I  was  going  skating. 
Could  it  possibly  wait  till  to-morrow  ?  " 

Frances  West  looked  helplessly  at  Beatrice. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  You 
told  me  that  to-day  was  the  time.  I  always 
depend  on  you  to  keep  track." 

Beatrice  laughed  gaily.  "  I'm  so  glad  I 
happened  in,"  she  said.  "  It's  such  a  lovely 
spectacle  to  see  the  methodical  Dottie  King 
trying  to  persuade  the  poetical  and  always- 
behind-time  Frances  to  put  off  till  to-morrow 
what  she  ought  to  have  done  day  before  yes- 
terday. Come,  Dottie,  take  off  your  coat  and 
go  to  work." 

"  I'm  sorry  I'm  always  late,"  said  Frances, 
sweetly.  "  I've  decided  to  try  to  be  on  time 
now  that  we've  got  our  new  rugs  and  these 
lovely  green  curtains.  So  I  bought  a  calendar 
pad  and  put  down  my  date  for  reading  proof 
with  you  last  week,  when  you  first  reminded 
me  of  it." 


i6o        BErrr 

Dorothy  had  followed  Beatrice's  instruction 
to  take  off  her  coat.  Now  she  sat  down  re- 
signedly before  the  writing-table,  pulled  a 
long  strip  of  printer's  proof  off  the  spindle, 
and  dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink,  ready  for 
work.  "  How  do  you  happen  to  be  here, 
Bess  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Came  to  read  my  mail,"  said  Beatrice. 
"  Some  of  the  best  exchanges  are  out  about 
this  time  in  the  month.  When  you  didn't 
come,  I  tried  to  correct  proof  with  Frances, 
but  we  couldn't  either  of  us  remember  the 
printers'  marks  ;  and  our  Webster's  dictionary, 
that  has  them  in  the  back,  got  lost  in  the 
shuffle  of  house-cleaning  last  vacation." 

"  Then  if  the  dictionary  is  lost,  you  must 
stay,"  said  Dorothy,  "  because  I  can  correct 
proof,  but  I  can't  spell,  and  neither  can 
Frances.  Come,  Frances,  here's  the  copy  for 
you  to  read." 

Frances  West's  voice  had  a  peculiarly  charm- 
ing quality,  and  her  manner  of  reading  was 
so  absorbed  and  sympathetic  that  she  never 
failed  to  interest  her  auditors ;  so  that  even 
the  mechanical  drudgery  of  correcting  proof 
was  endurable  with  her  help.  The  work  went 


SOPHOMORE  161 

on  rapidly,  Dorothy  bending  over  the  long 
printers'  galleys,  adding  mysterious  little 
marks  here  and  there  in  the  wide  margins, 
Frances  reading  as  expressively  as  though 
she  were  doing  her  best  to  entertain  Beatrice 
Egerton,  who  curled  herself  up  on  the  win- 
dow-seat, listened,  made  flippant  comments, 
perused  her  exchanges  when  the  "  Argus " 
articles  did  not  interest  her,  and  when  ap- 
pealed to  by  Dorothy,  acted  as  substitute  for 
the  missing  Webster's  dictionary. 

"  Well,  that's  over,"  said  Dorothy,  at  last, 
straightening  in  her  chair  and  stretching  out 
her  cramped  arms  over  her  head.  "  Next 
month  will  be  Laura  Dale's  turn  again.  I 
wonder  if  she'll  do  it." 

"  '  Poor  Dottie ! '  mimicked  Beatrice. 
"'Could  you  do  it  just  once  more?  I  can't 
seem  to  learn  the  marks.'  That's  what  she'll 
say.  You  shouldn't  be  so  capable,  Dottie, 
and  then  you  could  go  skating  afternoons 
instead  of  doing  your  own  work  and  the 
assistant  business  manager's  too." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Dorothy,  who  was 
really  very  tired  indeed,  and  so  preferred  not 
to  talk  about  it.  "  Laura  is  a  great  deal  of 


162        BErrr  WALES 

help  with  some  parts  of  the  work,  and  I  don't 
blame  any  one  for  not  wanting  to  correct 
proof — though  I  don't  mind  doing  it  so  long 
as  Frances  will  read  for  me.  Aren't  our  new 
curtains  lovely  ?  " 

"  Such  a  cool,  woodsy  green,"  said  Frances. 

"  Just  right  for  poets  to  write  behind," 
supplemented  Beatrice,  who  loved  to  tease 
Frances,  though  in  her  heart  she  admired  her 
as  much  as  Dorothy  did. 

"  Girls,  it's  long  after  six,"  said  Dorothy, 
rising  abruptly,  "  and  I  must  go.  I  have  an 
evening's  work  still  before  me." 

As  she  picked  up  her  gloves,  she  noticed 
Frances'  letter  still  lying  neglected  on  the 
window-seat.  "  Here,  Frances,"  she  said,  "  do 
just  open  this  letter,  and  tell  me  that  it's 
dreadfully  important.  I  want  to  bother  Laurie 
about  it.  She  saw  it  on  the  zoology  bulletin 
board  last  week  and  didn't  trouble  herself  to 
bring  it  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  presume  it's  nothing,"  said  Frances, 
dreamily.  She  was  watching  the  sunset  glow- 
ing gold  and  scarlet  between  the  green  dra- 
peries. 

"  Here,  Frances,"  laughed  Beatrice,  thrust- 


SOPHOMORE  163 

ing  the  letter  into  her  hands.  "  Read  it  by  the 
light  of  the  dying  sun,  if  you  prefer  that  to 
good  green-shaded  electricity.  You  owe  it  to 
Dorothy  to  take  an  interest  when  she 
bothered  herself  to  bring  it  to  you,  and  so 
got  caught  and  deprived  of  her  afternoon's 
fun.  Poor  Dottie !  can't  you  go  skating  to- 
morrow ?  " 

They  were  animatedly  discussing  the  possi- 
bility of  Miss  Mills's  neglecting  to  call  for  a 
recitation  on  Ward's  "  Poets  "  the  next  day, 
when  Frances  gave  a  little  exclamation. 

"  Why,  girls,"  she  began,  excitedly.  "  I 
don't  understand.  Isn't  to-day  the  twentieth 
of  February?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Beatrice.  "  You  knew 
from  that  wonderful  calendar  pad,  didn't 
you?" 

Frances  disregarded  the  question.  "  Then — 
Why,  this  letter  is  dated  February  second. 
Where  has  it  been  all  the  time?" 

"  I  just  told  you,"  repeated  Dorothy,  "  that 
Laurie  saw  it  on  the  zoology  bulletin  board 
last  week.  Perhaps  it  was  there  a  week  or 
two  before  she  saw  it.  Is  it  really  important, 
Frances  ?  Laurie  supposed  from  the  direction 


1 64  BETrr   WALES 

that  it  was  just  a  bill  or  an  advertisement 
She'll  be  very  sorry." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  declared 
Frances,  in  bewilderment.  "  Read  it,"  and 
she  held  out  the  letter  to  Dorothy. 

"  Read  it  aloud,"  suggested  Beatrice. 

"  Yes,  do,"  added  Frances.  "  I  haven't  any 
idea  what  it  means." 

"'  The  Quiver'  Offices, 

Fulton  St.,  New  York, 

Feb.  2,  19—. 
11  Miss  FRANCES  WEST, 

Editor-in-Chief  of  Harding 

College  '  Argus ' : 

"  DEAR  MADAME  : — It  always  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  see  the  merits  of  '  The  Quiver ' 
recognized,  particularly  in  haunts  of  high 
culture,  like  your  alma  mater.  Nevertheless, 
you  will  readily  understand  that  the  little 
tribute  to  the  genius  of  one  of  our  contribu- 
tors, contained  in  your  December  number, 
which,  owing  to  my  prolonged  absence  from 
the  city,  has  just  now  come  under  my  obser- 
vation, is,  to  speak  bluntly,  deserving  of  some 
return  from  me.  I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  be  glad  to  offer  the  proper  explanation. 
If,  however,  you  insist  upon  leaving  the  mat- 
ter in  my  hands,  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  not 


SOPHOMORE  165 

mince  matters.     College  honor  is  a  point  about 
which  I  am  very  sensitive.     We  go  to  press 
on  the  twentieth  inst.     Until  that  time  I  am 
"  Yours  confidentially, 

"  RICHARD  BLAKE." 

"Well,"  said  Dorothy,  folding  the  letter 
carefully  and  putting  it  back  in  its  envelope, 
"  what  do  you  make  of  that,  Bess  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Beatrice,  "  nothing  at  all. 
Who  in  the  world  is  Richard  Blake  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Don't  you,  Frances  ?  " 

Frances  shook  her  head.  "  But  '  The 
Quiver  '  is  a  magazine.  I've  seen  a  copy  once 
or  twice." 

"  Then,"  said  Dorothy,  promptly,  "  Richard 
Blake  must  be  the  editor,  or  one  of  them." 

"  Well,  did  we  say  anything  about  him  in 
the  December  number  ? "  pursued  Beatrice. 
"  Or  anything  about  his  magazine  ?  " 

"  No,"  declared  Dorothy,  "  of  course  not. 
'  The  Quiver '  isn't  a  college  magazine,  is  it, 
Frances?  It  couldn't  be  on  the  list  of  ex- 
changes? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Frances,  wearily.  "  '  The 
Quiver '  is  a  real  magazine,  Dorothy.  It's 
new,  I  think,  but  I  know  Miss  Raymond  con- 


i66  BETTT   WALES 

siders  it  very  clever.  I  saw  a  copy  once  in 
her  room." 

"  Clever  or  not  clever,"  said  Beatrice, 
calmly,  "  I'm  sure  this  editor  must  be  insane. 
There  is  absolutely  no  sense  to  his  letter." 

Dorothy  unfolded  Mr.  Richard  Blake's 
missive,  read  it  through  once  more,  and  passed 
it  without  comment  to  Beatrice.  Meanwhile 
Frances  was  rummaging  through  the  files  of 
the  "  Argus." 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Didn't  he 
say  the  January  number?  " 

"  No,  December,"  corrected  Beatrice,  joining 
Frances  in  her  search  for  the  missing  maga- 
zine. 

"  There,"  said  Frances,  at  last,  reading 
down  the  table  of  contents.  "  '  The  Self-gov- 
ernment System  at  Harding  ' — he  wouldn't 
be  mentioned  in  that.  My  poem  is  next — he 
certainly  isn't  in  that.  Then  that  story  of 
Eleanor  Watson's,  and  an  essay  on  '  Sweet- 
ness and  Light.' " 

"  Perhaps  he's  in  that,"  suggested  Dorothy, 
hopefully.  "  It  sounds  as  if  it  might  mean 
almost  anything." 

Beatrice    Egerton    giggled.     "  You    didn't 


SOPHOMORE  167 

take  the  course  in  nineteenth  century  essay- 
ists,  I  guess,  Dottie.  He's  not  in  '  Sweetness 
and  Light,'  unless  Richard  Blake  is  an  alibi 
of  Matthew  Arnold's." 

"  And  he  couldn't  possibly  be  in  any  of 
these  sketches,"  went  on  Frances,  anxiously, 
"  nor  in  the  editorials,  nor  in  the  alumneB 
notes." 

"  Of  course  not,"  agreed  Beatrice,  scornfully. 
"  See  here,  girls,"  she  added,  referring  again 
to  the  note,  "  he  doesn't  tell  us  the  name  of 
his  contributor — the  simpleton  !  That's  what 
we  ought  to  look  for.  He  says  we  printed  a 
tribute  to  the  genius  of  one  of  his  contrib- 
utors." 

"  I  have  it !  "  declared  Dorothy,  pulling  the 
December  "  Argus "  out  of  Frances'  hands. 
"  The  contributor  is  a  member  of  the  faculty, 
and  the  article  is  spoken  of  in  the  faculty 
notes.  That's  it,  of  course." 

But  diligent  search  of  the  faculty  notes 
failed  to  unearth  any  item  about  an  article  in 
"  The  Quiver." 

"Besides,"  added  Beatrice,  who  had  re- 
turned to  the  note  once  more,  "  that  wouldn't 
explain  what  he  says  about  college  honor. 


i68        BErrr  WALES 

And  what  is  this  about  '  offering  the  proper 
explanation '  ?  Are  people  supposed  to  ex- 
plain compliments  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Frances.  "  I  suppose 
I've  made  some  dreadful  blunder,  and  he 
noticed  it.  And  to-day  is  the  twentieth ; 
he  evidently  wanted  an  answer  by  that  time. 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  telegraph  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Dorothy,  after  a  moment's 
thought  "  It  wouldn't  be  any  use.  If  he 
went  to  press — or  '  The  Quiver '  went  to  press 
— to-day,  it's  gone  hours  ago.  You'd  better 
write  him  to-night.  He'll  get  your  letter  in 
the  morning,  and  then  he'll  understand." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  write  ?  "  asked  Frances, 
helplessly. 

"  Tell  him  to  study  Genung  on  clearness," 
suggested  Beatrice,  flippantly. 

"  Don't,  Beatrice,"  broke  in  Dorothy. 
"  This  is  evidently  a  serious  matter.  I 
should  tell  him  that  you  didn't  know  what 
he  meant  by  his  letter,  Frances,  and  of  course 
explain  why  you  haven't  written  before/' 

"  Will  you  two  stay  while  I  write  it  ? " 
asked  Frances.  "  I  should  never  dare  tc  take 
the  responsibility  alone." 


SOPHOMORE  169 

Dorothy  sat  down  on  the  window-seat  in 
silence,  and  Beatrice  followed  her  example. 
There  was  no  sound  in  the  sanctum  but  the 
scratching  of  Frances'  pen,  moving  swiftly 
over  the  paper.  When  the  brief  note  was  fin- 
ished, the  editor-in-chief  handed  it  to  her  col- 
leagues. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Dorothy,  reading  it 
through. 

"  Infinitely  better  than  his,"  added  Beatrice. 
"  His  reminds  me  of  that  verse  of  Marion 
Lustig's  that  was  more  obscure  than  Brown- 
ing— the  one  we  persuaded  you  not  to  print" 

"  Don't  you  think,"  began  Dorothy  hesitat- 
ingly, "  that,  until  we  know  exactly  what  Mr. 
Richard  Blake  means,  it  would  be  better  not 
to  mention  his  letter  ?  " 

"  Not  even  to  the  rest  of  the  '  Argus ' 
board  ?  "  asked  Beatrice,  who  had  been  antici- 
pating the  sensation  that  the  story  of  the 
mysterious  letter  would  create.  "  Dottie,"  she 
went  on,  looking  keenly  at  Dorothy,  "  I  be- 
lieve you  have  another  idea  about  what  that 
note  means." 

"  I  know  just  as  little  about  it  as  you  do," 
said  Dorothy  quietly,  "  but  I  think  eight  girli 


170 

are  too  many  to  keep  a  secret  and — it's 
Prances'  letter.  She  must  decide." 

"  I  think  Dorothy  is  right,"  agreed  Frances. 
"  I  believe  that  we  would  better  wait  before 
telling  the  others.  If  it's  some  dreadful 
blunder  that  I  have  made,  perhaps  I  could 
correct  it  if  only  we  three  knew  of  it.  Though 
I  don't  know  whether  that  would  be  quite 
honest,"  she  added  sadly. 

Beatrice  put  her  arm  around  Frances'  waist 
and  led  her  to  the  door. 

"  You  old  dear,"  she  said,  "  you're  so  proud 
of  your  beloved '  Argus.'  I  believe  you  worry 
over  every  word  that  goes  into  it." 

"  And  over  every  s  that  is  upside-down  and 
isn't  detected  by  my  eagle  eye,"  laughed  Dor- 
othy, locking  the  door  and  carefully  hiding 
the  key  in  the  place  where  half  the  college 
knew  it  was  kept. 

It  was  seven  o'clock — no  use  going  home  to 
dinner.  Dorothy  decided  to  get  an  early  start 
with  Ward's  "  Poets,"  and  to  dine  later  in  the 
evening  on  ship's  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  milk. 
The  library  was  very  quiet.  She  read  busily, 
concentrating  her  attention  upon  the  pages 
before  her,  oblivious  of  her  surroundings,  for- 


SOPHOMORE  171 

getful  even  of  the  mysterious  letter  and  the 
theory,  which,  despite  her  declaration  to  Bea- 
trice Egerton,  she  had  formed  concerning  it. 

Presently  some  one  tiptoed  up  behind  her 
and  clasped  two  hands  tightly  across  her  eyes. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  whispered  a  laughing  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Dorothy  a  trifle 
irritably. 

"  Did  you  give  it  to  her  ?  "  demanded  the 
voice  imperturbably. 

"Give  what  to  whom?" 

"  The  letter  to  Frances  West." 

"  It's  Mary  Brooks,"  said  Dorothy,  pulling 
away  the  hands  and  turning  to  find  Mary 
and  Marion  Lawrence  standing  behind  her 
chair. 

"  Aren't  you  nearly  through  with  that 
book  ?  "  asked  Marion. 

Dorothy  nodded.  "  Leave  me  in  peace  for 
ten  minutes  and  you  may  have  it." 

"  Well,  tell  us  first  about  the  letter,"  de- 
manded Mary.  "  Was  it  a  hair-raiser?  " 

•'  Oh,  no,"  answered  Dorothy  calmly.  "  It 
was — oh,  a  note  of  thanks,  or  something  of 
the  sort  from  some  magazine  that  the  '  Argus ' 
had  spoken  of." 


172  BETTT   WALES 

"  Bother  !  "  said  Marion.  "  That's  no  good 
for  an  ending  to  my  theme." 

"  No  good  at  all,"  agreed  Dorothy.  "  I 
shouldn't  use  it  if  I  were  you." 

"  I  certainly  shan't,"  said  Marion.  "  I  can 
invent  a  nicer  ending  than  that.  Come,  Mary, 
leave  her  alone,  so  that  I  can  have  Ward.  Oh, 
dear !  I'm  dreadfully  disappointed  about  my 
theme." 

The  reply  to  Mr.  Richard  Blake,  presum- 
ably editor  of  "  The  Quiver,"  had  been  dis- 
patched on  the  evening  of  the  twentieth. 
Two  days  later  Frances,  looking  as  if  she  had 
seen  a  ghost,  stopped  Dorothy  on  her  way 
from  morning  chapel  to  her  first  recita- 
tion. 

"  Can  you  come  to  the  sanctum  right  after 
lunch  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Beatrice  can  come 
then." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Dorothy.  "  You've  got  his 
answer  ?  " 

Frances  nodded.  "  And  oh,  Dorothy,  it's 
just  dreadful !  " 

When  Dorothy  reached  the  sanctum  that 
afternoon  she  found  Beatrice  and  Frances 


SOPHOMORE  173 

there  before  her.     Without  a  word   Frances 
handed  her  the  letter. 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  WEST "  it  ran ; 

"  Your  note  is  received  and  the  delay  in 
sending  it  fully  explained.  I  am  sorry  you 
could  make  nothing  of  my  first  letter.  I  in- 
tended to  be  vague,  for  I  wanted  to  test  your 
knowledge  of  the  episode  in  question  ;  but  it 
seems  I  overshot  the  mark.  So  let  me  say, 
please,  since  you  and  your  colleagues  evidently 
do  not  read  '  The  Quiver/  that  a  story  in 
your  December  number  by  a  Miss  Eleanor 
Watson  is  practically  a  copy  of  one  that  ap- 
peared in  our  November  issue,  which  I  am 
sending  you  under  separate  cover.  All  I  ask 
is  that  some  public  acknowledgment  of  the 
fact  shall  be  made,  either  by  you  or  by  me. 
I  have  delayed  the  notice  I  intended  to  insert 
in  our  next  number,  until  I  hear  from  you. 

"  Let  me  say  that  I  blame  neither  you  nor 
your  associates  in  the  matter.     *  The  Quiver  ' 
is  young,  and  plagiarists  will  happen. 
"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  RICHARD  BLAKE." 

<;Has  the  magazine  come?"  asked  Dor- 
othy, without  exhibiting  the  least  surprise  at 
Mr.  Blake's  startling  announcement. 


174        BErrr  WALES 

"  Yes,"  said  Frances.  "  There  must  be  some 
dreadful  mistake." 

"  Can't  you  find  the  story  he  means  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  of  course  Eleanor  Watson  didn't 
copy  it.  No  Harding  girl  would  do  such  a 
thing." 

"Eleanor  Watson  is  different,"  said 
Dorothy. 

"  You  mean  you  think  she  did  it  ?  "  asked 
Beatrice  Egerton.  "  You  don't  think  it  was 
a  coincidence?  Frances  knew  of  something 
like  it  happening  once,  entirely  by  chance." 

"  This  wasn't  chance,"  said  Dorothy  slowly. 
"  Oh,  Beatrice — you  know  Eleanor  Watson 
better  than  I — I  don't  want  to  be  uncharit- 
able. That  was  why  I  didn't  tell  you  girls 
the  other  day,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  this 
was  what  Mr.  Blake  meant.  Can't  you  see 
that  it  explains  everything  ?  Don't  you  re- 
member I  told  you  how  queer  she  was  about 
giving  me  the  story  ;  and  before  that,  just  after 
she  handed  it  in,  she  went  over  to  get  it  back." 

"  Yes,"  said  Frances  eagerly.  "  I  remember. 
We  thought  it  such  a  good  joke.  Oh,  let  us 
go  and  ask  her  how  it  was.  She  will  surely 
be  able  to  explain." 


SOPHOMORE  175 

"  But  Frances,"  began  Dorothy  and  stopped, 
glancing  uncertainly  at  Beatrice. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  mind  me,"  said  Beatrice 
calmly.  "  If  this  is  true,  I  wash  my 
hands  of  Eleanor  Watson."  She  turned  to 
Frances,  and  her  face  softened.  "  You  dear 
old  idealist,"  she  said,  pulling  Frances  down 
on  the  seat  beside  her.  "  Can't  you  see  that 
appealing  to  Eleanor  Watson  wouldn't  do  at 
all?  Can't  you  see  that  if  she  is  mean 
enough  to  plagiarize  '  The  Quiver's  '  story,  she 
is  probably  capable  of  lying  out  of  it  ?  And 
how  should  we  know  whether  or  not  she  told 
the  truth  ?  " 

"  Or  suppose  that  she  did  convince  us," 
said  Dorothy  gently,  "  you  see  there  is  still 
Mr.  Blake.  I  don't  believe  Eleanor's  denial 
would  satisfy  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Beatrice  resignedly,  "  next  to 
Eleanor  Watson  herself,  I  suppose  I  am  the 
person  who  would  profit  most  by  having  this 
whole  affair  hushed  up.  It's  going  to  be 
mighty  unpleasant  for  me,  what  with  my 
having  put  her  up  for  Dramatic  Club  and  all 
that.  But  frankly,  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to 
do  but  let  Mr.  Richard  Blake  go  ahead  and  say 


176        BErrr  WALES 

what  he  pleases.  Eleanor  Watson  will  prob- 
ably leave  college.  Some  people  will  believe 
the  story  and  some  won't.  Some  won't  even 
hear  it — '  The  Quiver '  seems  to  be  a  very  ob- 
scure magazine.  And  in  nine  days  every  one 
will  forget  all  about  it." 

"  But  Eleanor  Watson  will  never  forget," 
added  Frances  softly.  To  her  art  was  sacred 
and  the  idea  of  stealing  it  horrible. 

There  was  a  silence  broken  at  last  by 
Dorothy. 

"  Frances,"  she  said,  "  you're  right,  you  al- 
ways are.  You  divine  things  that  the  rest  of 
us  have  to  reason  out.  This  affair  is  un- 
pleasant for  everybody  concerned,  but  it  isn't 
a  vital  matter  to  us  or  to  Mr.  Blake.  The  only 
person  to  be  considered  is  Eleanor  Watson. 
If  the  matter  is  made  public " 

"  It  would  serve  her  right,  and  it  might  be 
the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  her,"  broke  in 
Beatrice,  who  was  growing  more  angry  with 
Eleanor  the  longer  she  thought  of  the  in- 
timacy between  them. 

"  That,"  said  Dorothy,  "  is  the  question  we 
have  to  decide.  I  for  one  am  not  at  all  sure 
what  to  think.  Being  publicly  humiliated 


SOPHOMORE  177 

might  be  a  good  thing  for  her,  or  it  might 
ruin  her  whole  life." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  have  people  know  about 
it,"  said  Frances,  her  face  white  with  horror. 
"  Let  us  go  home  now  and  think  it  over,  and 
let  us  be  oh  !  so  careful  not  even  to  hint  at  what 
has  happened.  We  may  have  to  confide  in 
some  others,  but  let  us  not  give  up  the  chance 
of  keeping  our  secret  by  telling  the  wrong 
people  now.  And  let  us  meet  again  to- 
morrow afternoon." 

"  In  your  room,"  suggested  Beatrice.  "  Thii 
place  is  too  conspicuous." 

The  three  editors  crept  down  the  stairs  like 
so  many  conspirators,  separated  with  soft 
good-byes  in  the  lower  hall,  and  went  their 
several  ways,  each  feeling  that  the  weight  of 
the  world  rested  on  her  shoulders.  To 
Beatrice  the  affair  was  a  personal  one,  involv- 
ing her  judgment  and  her  status  in  the  college 
world  ;  Frances  mingled  pity  for  Eleanor  with 
jealousy  for  the  fair  name  of  the  "  Argus  " ; 
Dorothy  was  going  over  the  career  of  Eleanor 
Watson  since  she  entered  Harding,  wondering 
whether  it  would  be  possible,  by  any  method 
of  treatment,  to  make  her  over  into  a  trust- 


iy8 

worthy  member  of  the  student  body,  and 
whether  she  would  ever  be  worth  to  the 
world  what  her  evil  influence  had  cost  her 
college.  All  at  once  a  bitter  thought  flashed 
upon  Dorothy.  She  herself  was  partly  respon- 
sible for  Eleanor's  downfall ;  for  had  she  not 
persuaded  her,  against  her  will,  to  give  the 
story  to  the  "  Argus  "  ? 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    PROBLEM    IN    ETHICS 

BETTY  WALES  sat  in  Dorothy  King's  big 
wicker  easy  chair,  an  expression  of  mingled  dis- 
tress and  perplexity  on  her  usually  merry  face. 
Dorothy  had  sent  word  that  she  was  ill  and 
wanted  to  see  her  little  friend,  and  Betty  had 
hurried  over  in  her  first  free  period,  never 
guessing  at  the  strange  story  that  Dorothy  had 
summoned  her  to  hear.  The  story  was  told 
now.  It  remained  only  for  Betty  to  decide 
what  she  should  do  about  it. 

"  It's  the  most  annoying  thing,"  Dorothy 
was  saying  from  the  bed  where  she  lay,  pale 
and  listless,  among  the  pillows.  "  I've  heard 
of  girls  being  ill  from  overwork,  and  I  al- 
ways thought  they  were  good-for-nothings, 
glad  of  an  excuse  to  stay  in  bed  for  awhile. 
But  I  can't  get  up,  Betty.  I  tried  hard  this 
morning  before  the  doctor  came,  and  it  made 
me  so  sick  and  faint — you  can't  imagine.  So 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  submit  when  she 

179 


i8o        BErrr  WALES 

insisted  upon  my  going  to  the  infirmary  for 
two  weeks." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  murmured  Betty  sympathet- 
ically. 

"  She  tried  to  make  me  promise  not  to  see 
any  one  except  the  matron  before  I  was 
moved,"  went  on  Dorothy,  "  but  I  told  her  I 
must  talk  to  you  for  half  an  hour.  I  promised 
on  my  honor  not  to  keep  you  longer  than  that, 
and  we  haven't  but  ten  minutes  left.  Now 
won't  you  decide  to  go  and  see  Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  decide  !  "  cried 
Betty  in  despairing  tones.  "  It's  so  dreadful 
that  Eleanor  should  have  done  it.  That's  all 
I  can  think  of." 

"  But  listen  to  me,  Betty,"  began  Dorothy 
patiently.  "  Let  me  show  you  just  how  mat- 
ters stand.  Frances  can't  go  down  to  New 
York  alone — you  can  see  that.  She  doesn't 
know  the  city,  and  she'd  get  lost  or  run  over, 
and  ten  to  one  come  home  without  even  re- 
membering to  see  Mr.  Blake.  You  can't 
believe  how  absent-minded  she  is,  till  you've 
worked  with  her  as  I  have.  Besides,  she  is 
too  dreamy  and  imaginative  to  convince  a 
man  of  Mr.  Blake's  type. 


SOPHOMORE  181 

"  And  Bess  Egerton  mustn't  go ;  Frances 
and  I  are  agreed  about  that.  She's  too 
flighty.  She'd  be  angry  if  Mr.  Blake  didn't 
yield  his  point  immediately,  and  say  some- 
thing outrageous  to  him.  Then  she'd  go  off 
shopping  and  come  back  here  in  the  best  of 
spirits,  declaring  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  because  Mr.  Blake  was  '  such  a  silly.' 
And  I  can't  go." 

"  If  you  only  could  ! "  broke  in  Betty.  "  Then 
it  would  be  all  right.  Isn't  there  any  chance 
that  you  might  be  able  to  by  the  end  of  next 
week?" 

Doroth}7  shook  her  head.  "  I  couldn't  get 
leave,  on  top  of  this  two  weeks'  illness,  with- 
out telling  Miss  Stuart  exactly  why  I  needed 
to  go,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  Misa 
Raymond  knows  all  about  it  and  approves, 
and  we  don't  want  to  confide  in  any  one  else. 
Besides,  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Blake  will  wait  so 
long." 

"  Well  then,  Dorothy,  why  not  write  to 
him?" 

Dorothy  shook  her  head  again.  "  We  tried 
that.  We  wrote  one  letter,  and  when  his 
answer  came  we  tried  again,  but  eight  pages 


i82        BErrr  WALES 

was  the  least  we  could  get  our  arguments  into. 
No,  it's  a  case  where  talking  it  out  is  the  only 
thing  to  do.  You  could  take  him  unawares 
and  I'm  sure  you'd  bring  him  round." 

"  That's  just  it,"  broke  in  Betty  eagerly. 
"  I  know  you're  mistaken,  Dorothy.  I 
couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to  say  to  him — I 
never  can.  It  would  be  just  a  waste  of  time 
for  me  to  try." 

Dorothy  took  a  bulky  envelope  from  under 
her  pillows  and  held  it  out  to  Betty.  "  Here," 
she  said.  "  These  are  the  letters  we  wrote. 
We  all  three  tried.  Here  are  arguments  in 
plenty." 

"  But  I  should  forget  them  all  when  I  got 
there." 

"  You  mustn't." 

"  Besides,  it  would  look  so  queer  for  me  to 
go,  when  I'm  not  on  the  '  Argus '  board,  and 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  trouble." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  why  we  chose  you?" 
exclaimed  Dorothy.  "  No  ?  I  am  so  stupid 
to-day ;  I  put  everything  the  wrong  way 
around.  Why,  there  were  two  reasons.  One 
is  because  you  are  so  fond  of  Eleanor  and 
understand  her  so  well.  Nobody  on  the 


SOPHOMORE  183 

'  Argus '  staff,  except  Beatrice  and  myself,  has 
more  than  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  her, 
whereas  you  can  tell  Mr.  Blake  exactly  what 
sort  of  girl  she  is,  and  why  we  want  to  save 
her  from  this  disgrace.  The  other  reason  is 
that,  while  Christy  is  away,  you  are  one  of 
the  two  sophomores  on  the  Students'  Com- 
mission ;  Eleanor  is  a  sophomore  and  either 
you  or  Lucy  Merrifield  is  the  proper  person 
to  act  in  her  interests  in  a  case  of  this  kind. 
Because  you  know  Eleanor  best,  we  chose  you 
— and  for  some  other  reasons,"  added  Dorothy, 
truthfully,  remembering  the  confidence  they 
had  all  felt  in  Betty's  peculiar  combination 
of  engaging  manner  and  indomitable  pluck 
and  perseverance,  where  a  promise  or  a  friend 
was  concerned. 

"  Oh,  Dorothy  !  "  sighed  Betty,  feeling  her- 
self hopelessly  entangled  in  the  web  of  Doro- 
thy's logic. 

"  There  is  a  third  reason,"  went  on  Dor- 
othy, inexorably,  "just  between  you  and  me. 
Of  course  you  understand  that  I  feel  per- 
sonally to  blame  about  this  trouble.  If  I 
hadn't  lost  my  horrid  temper  and  said  some- 
thing disagreeable  to  force  her  hand,  Eleanor 


1 84        BErrr  WALES 

Watson  might  never  have  allowed  the  story 
to  be  printed  and  the  worst  complications 
would  have  been  avoided.  Now  I  personally 
ask  you,  as  the  person  I  can  best  trust,  to  go 
to  Mr.  Blake  for  me.  You  know  Eleanor. 
You  agree  with  us  that  it  is  very  likely  to 
spoil  her  whole  life  if  this  is  made  public " 

"  But,  Dorothy,  I'm  not  sure  it's  right  to 
keep  it  a  secret,"  broke  in  Betty. 

"  I  believe  you  will  feel  sure  when  you 
have  had  a  chance  to  think  over  all  sides  of 
the  question,"  resumed  Dorothy,  "  and  to  see 
how  much  to  blame  I  am.  Then  you  are  a 
typical  Harding  girl,  the  right  sort  to  repre- 
sent the  college  to  Mr.  Blake,  who  seems  to 
be  very  much  interested  in  knowing  what  sort 
of  girl  Harding  turns  out." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  demurred  Betty.  "  I'm  not  the 
right  kind  at  all." 

"  Besides,  you  have  a  way  of  getting  around 
people  and  persuading  them  to  do  what  you 
want,"  concluded  Dorothy. 

"  Never,"  declared  Betty. 

Dorothy  smiled  faintly.  "  You  have  the 
reputation,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  don't 
know  how  you  got  it;  but  now  that  you 


SOPHOMORE  185 

have  it  you're  bound  to  live  up  to  it,  you 
know.  And  if  you  don't  go,  we  shall  have 
to  risk  writing  and  I  am  perfectly  certain 
that  no  letter  will  keep  Mr.  Blake  from  pub- 
lishing his  notice  next  month,  whereas  I 
think  that  if  he  were  to  talk  over  the  matter 
with  you,  he  might  very  easily  be  persuaded 
to  give  it  up." 

Dorothy  lay  back  on  her  pillows  and  closed 
her  eyes.  "  It  does  certainly  seem  like  shirk- 
ing to  be  ill  just  now,"  she  said. 

Betty  rose  hastily  and  came  over  to  the  bed. 
"  Dorothy,"  she  began,  "  I  must  go  this  min- 
ute. You  are  all  tired  out.  I  wish  I  could 
promise  now,  but  I  must  think  it  over — 
whether  I  can  do  what  you  want  of  me  and 
whether  I  ought.  I'll  tell  you  what,"  she 
went  on  eagerly,  "  I  can't  see  you  again,  but 
I'll  send  you  a  bunch  of  violets  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning,  and  I'll  tuck  in  a  note  among 
the  flowers,  saying  what  I  can  do.  And  it 
will  be  the  very  best  I  can  do,  Dorothy." 

"  I  know  it  will,"  said  Dorothy.  "  Don't 
think  that  I  don't  realize  how  much  we're 
asking  of  you." 

"  I  like  to  be  trusted,"  said  Betty,  ruefully, 


i86 

"  but  it  seems  to  me  there  are  hundreds  of 
girls  in  college  who  could  do  this  better  than 
I.  Good-bye — and  look  out  for  the  violets, 
Dorothy." 

A  moment  later  she  opened  the  door  again. 
"  Of  course  Eleanor  doesn't  know  that  you've 
found  out?" 

"  No,"  said  Dorothy.  "  We've  told  no  one 
but  you  and  Miss  Raymond.  We  thought  it 
would  only  complicate  matters  and  hurt  her 
needlessly  to  tell  her  now.  I  suppose  she  will 
have  to  know  eventually,  to  guard  against  a 
repetition  of  the  trouble,  if  for  no  other  reason ; 
but  we  haven't  looked  so  far  ahead  as  that 

yet." 

It  was  fortunate  that  Betty  was  not  called 
upon  to  recite  in  her  next  class.  Refusing  the 
seat  that  Bob  Parker  had  saved  for  her  be- 
tween herself  and  Alice  Waite,  she  found  a 
place  in  the  back  row  where  a  pillar  protected 
her  from  Bob's  demonstrations,  and  leaning 
her  head  on  her  hand  she  set  herself  to  work 
out  the  problem  that  Dorothy  had  given  her. 
But  the  shame  of  Eleanor's  act  overcame 
her,  as  it  had  in  Dorothy's  room ;  she  could 
not  think  of  anything  else.  She  woke  with  a 


SOPHOMORE  187 

start  at  the  end  of  the  hour  to  find  the  girls 
pushing  back  their  chairs  and  making  their 
noisy  exit  from  the  room,  and  to  realize  that 
she  might  as  well  have  learned  something 
about  Napoleon's  retreat  from  Moscow,  since 
she  had  decided  nothing  about  her  trip  to 
New  York. 

"  I  say,"  said  Bob,  joining  her  outside  the 
door,  "  why  are  you  so  unsociable?  " 

"  Headache,"  returned  Betty,  laconically, 
and  with  some  truth. 

"  Too  bad."  Owing  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
never  had  a  headache  in  her  life,  Bob's  sym- 
pathy was  somewhat  perfunctory. 

"  When  you  have  the  written  lesson  to 
study  for,  too,"  mourned  Alice. 

"  Written  lesson  ? "  questioned  Betty,  in 
dismay. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  hear  Professor  White 
giving  it  out  for  to-morrow  ?  All  of  Napoleon 
— that's  five  hundred  pages." 

Betty  gasped.  "  I  suppose  he  made  a  lot 
of  new  points  to-day.  I  didn't  hear  a  word." 

"  Next  time,"  said  Bob,  severely,  "  perhaps 
you'll  be  willing  to  sit  down  among  people 
who  can  see  that  you  keep  awake." 


i88        BErrr  WALES 

"  Don't  tease  her,"  begged  Alice.  "  She 
must  have  an  awful  headache,  not  to  have 
heard  about  the  written  lesson.  What  did 
you  think  we  were  all  groaning  so  about, 
Betty  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  hear  that,  either,"  said  Betty, 
meekly.  "  Will  one  of  you  lend  me  a  note- 
book?" 

Betty  could  have  hugged  Helen  Adams 
when  immediately  after  luncheon  she  an- 
nounced that  she  was  going  down  to  study 
history  with  T.  Reed  and  should  stay  till 
dinner  time.  Betty  hung  a  "  Busy  "  sign  on 
her  door — the  girls  would  think  that  she  too 
was  studying  history  madly — and  set  herself 
to  read  over  the  original  of  Eleanor's  story  in 
"The  Quiver"  that  Dorothy  had  lent  her. 
It  was  the  same  and  yet  not  the  same.  Plot 
and  characters  had  been  taken  directly  from 
the  original,  but  the  phrasing — Betty  knew 
Eleanor's  story  almost  by  heart — was  quite  dif- 
ferent, and  a  striking  little  episode  at  the  end 
that  Miss  Raymond  had  particularly  admired 
was  Eleanor's  own. 

"  I  like  hers  best,"  thought  Betty,  stoutly. 
"  I  wonder  if  the  resemblance  couldn't  have 


SOPHOMORE  189 

happened  by  chance.  Perhaps  she  read  this 
story  a  long  while  before  and  forgot  that  she 
had  not  thought  it  up  herself." 

Betty  looked  at  the  date  of  the  magazine 
and  then  consulted  her  calendar.  The  No- 
vember "  Quiver  "  had  come  out  just  two  days 
before  the  afternoon  of  the  barge  ride,  which 
had  also  been  "  theme  afternoon."  Betty  re- 
membered because  her  monthly  allowance 
always  came  on  the  third.  She  had  borrowed 
her  quarter  for  the  ride  of  Helen  and  paid 
her  out  of  the  instalment  that  arrived  the 
very  next  morning.  That  settled  it, — and  as 
Dorothy  had  pointed  out,  all  Eleanor's  seem- 
ingly inexplicable  queerness  about  the  story 
was  now  explained. 

Betty  threw  the  magazine  on  the  table  and 
going  to  the  window  gazed  drearily  out  at  the 
snow-covered  campus.  The  next  thing  to  set- 
tle was  whether  it  were  right  to  help  Eleanor 
to  cover  up  her  deceit?  Dorothy  felt,  from 
the  little  she  knew  of  Eleanor,  that  open  dis- 
grace would  take  away  her  last  chance  of 
being  honest  and  upright.  "  She  is  terribly 
sensitive,"  Dorothy  argued,  "  and  if  she  feels 
that  nice  people  don't  trust  her,  she  will  go 


190        BErrr  WALES 

as  far  as  she  dares  to  show  them  that  they  are 
right.  Perhaps  she  can  be  led,  but  she  cer- 
tainly can't  be  driven.  She  isn't  strong 
enough  to  meet  disgrace  and  down  it."  That 
might  be  true,  but  there  was  the  mathematics 
examination  of  the  year  before.  Miss  Hale 
had  argued  as  Dorothy  did.  In  the  hope  of 
ultimately  winning  Eleanor  by  kindness,  she 
had  not  let  Miss  Meredith  know  that  Eleanor 
had  told  her  an  untruth.  For  a  while  after- 
ward Eleanor  had  been  scrupulously  honor- 
able, but  now  she  had  done  something  in- 
finitely more  dishonest  than  the  deception  of 
Miss  Meredith.  No  doubt  Dorothy  regarded 
the  affair  of  the  story  as  a  first  offense,  and 
Betty  could  not  tell  her  that  it  wasn't.  She 
had  been  glad  enough  to  help  save  Eleanor 
from  the  consequences  of  her  foolish  bragging, 
the  year  before  ;  but  saving  her  from  the  con- 
sequences of  deliberate  dishonesty  was  a  dif- 
ferent matter.  Betty  had  been  taught  to 
despise  cheating  in  any  form,  and  to  avoid  the 
least  suspicion  of  it  with  scrupulous  care. 
And  now  Dorothy  wanted  her  to  aid  and 
abet  a — a  thief.  Betty  flushed  hotly  as  she 
applied  the  hard  name. 


SOPHOMORE  191 

All  at  once  the  memory  of  her  last  inter- 
view with  Eleanor  flashed  upon  her.  "  I  was 
an  idiot  last  fall.  Now  I  have  come  to  my 

senses "  that  was  what  she  had  said.  When 

her  voice  broke,  it  must  have  been  because  she 
was  sorry  for  the  change — sorry  that  the  old, 
shifty,  unreliable  self  had  come  back  to  take 
the  place  of  the  strange  new  one  whose  ideals 
had  proved  too  hard  and  too  high  to  live  by. 
The  sad,  hunted  look  that  Madeline  had 
spoken  of  was  explained  too.  Eleanor  was 
sorry.  But  was  she  sorry,  as  she  had  been  in 
the  case  of  the  mathematics  examination,  only 
because  she  was  afraid  of  being  found  out,  or 
did  she  honestly  regret  having  taken  what 
was  not  her  own,  and  used  it  to  gain  honors 
that  she  had  not  earned  ? 

There  was  another  point  that  Dorothy  had 
not  spoken  of — perhaps  had  not  thought  of. 
What  about  the  Dramatic  Club  election  and 
the  other  college  honors  that  had  come  or 
would  come  to  Eleanor,  one  after  another,  all 
because,  at  the  beginning  of  her  sophomore 
year,  she  had  made  a  reputation  for  brilliant 
literary  work  ?  Eleanor  had  been  right,  when 
she  was  a  freshman,  in  insisting  that  it  was 


the  start  which  counted.  Then,  despite  her 
first  abject  failure,  she  had  compassed  the  dif- 
ficult achievement  of  a  second  start.  How 
proud  Betty  had  been  of  her  !  And  now  all 
her  fair  hopes  and  high  ambitions  had  crum- 
bled to  dust  and  ashes.  Was  it  right  to  help 
her  cover  up  the  ruin  ?  Was  it  fair  to  girls 
like  Helen  Adams,  who  worked  hard  and  got 
no  recognition,  that  Eleanor  should  get  recog- 
nition for  work  which  was  not  her  own  ? 

Anyway,  she  was  not  going  to  New  York. 
Those  three  editors  could  choose  some  one 
else.  And  yet  if  she  refused — oh,  it  was  all 
dreadful !  Betty  flung  herself  on  the  couch 
and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows.  A  mo- 
ment later  the  door  opened  stealthily,  and 
Madeline  Ayres  stuck  her  head  in.  In  spite 
of  her  caution,  Betty  heard  her  and  sat  up 
with  a  nervous  start. 

"  I  hope  you  weren't  asleep,"  said  Madeline, 
settling  herself  comfortably  at  the  other  end 
of  the  couch.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  wake  you  ; 
that  was  why  I  came  in  without  knocking." 

"  I  wasn't  asleep,"  returned  Betty  faintly. 
"  I  was  just  resting." 

"  You  look  as  if  you  needed  to,"  said  Made- 


SOPHOMORE  193 

line  cheerfully.  "  Does  your  head  ache 
now?" 

"  Not — not  very  much,"  stammered  Betty. 

"  Have  you  read  over  all  this  ?  "  Madeline 
reached  out  a  long  arm  for  the  life  of  Napoleon 
that  lay  on  the  table. 

"  No,  hardly  any  of  it,"  confessed  Betty, 
reddening  as  she  remembered  the  "  Busy " 
sign. 

But  Madeline  remarked  briskly,  "  That's 
good.  Neither  have  I.  I  don't  feel  a  bit  like 
cramming,  so  I  shall  bluff.  When  father  was 
studying  art  in  Paris,  he  knew  a  man  who  had 
been  one  of  Napoleon's  guards  at  St.  Helena. 
He  was  old  and  lame  and  half  blind  and 
stunningly  homely  then,  and  an  artist's  model. 
He  used  to  tell  merry  tales  about  what  a  tiger 

of  a  man "  Madeline  stopped  short  in 

the  act  of  replacing  the  life  of  Napoleon  on 
the  table  and  stared  at  Betty  in  unfeigned  ad- 
miration. 

"  Betty  Wales,"  she  said  at  last,  "  you  are 
certainly  a  splendid  actress.  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  knew." 

Betty's  eyes  followed  Madeline's  to  the 
table,  and  then  to  "  The  Quiver,"  lying  in  full 


194        BErrr  WALES 

view  where  she  had  dropped  it  an  hour  before. 
There  was  one  chance  in  a  thousand  that 
Madeline  meant  something  besides  Eleanor's 
story,  and  Betty  resolved  to  make  sure. 

"  Knew  what,  Madeline?"  she  asked  stead- 
ily, trying  not  to  blush  but  feeling  the  tell-tale 
red  spread  over  her  cheeks  in  spite  of  all  she 
could  do. 

It  was  no  use.  Madeline  picked  up  the 
magazine  and  flipped  over  the  pages  carelessly 
till  she  came  to  Eleanor's  story.  "  That,"  she 
said,  holding  it  out  for  Betty  to  see.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  at  sight  of  Betty's  frightened, 
pleading  face,  Madeline's  hand  dropped  to  her 
side. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  Betty.  I  see 
now  how  it  is.  You  didn't  know  before ; 
you've  just  found  out,  and  when  I  came  in 
you  were  mourning  for  your  fallen  idol. 
Shall  I  go?" 

Betty  stretched  out  a  detaining  hand. 
"  No,"  she  said,  "  tell  me, — quick  before  Helen 
comes, — how  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Read  it  in  '  The  Quiver,'  away  back  last 
fall,  before  Miss  Watson's  story  came  out  in 


SOPHOMORE  195 

the  'Argus.'  It's  been — oh,  amusing,  you 
know,  to  hear  people  rave  over  her  wonderful 
theme." 

"  Does  any  one  else  know  ?  " 

"  I  doubt  it.  '  Th?  Quiver  '  isn't  on  sale  up 
here.  Father  thinks  it's  clever  and  he  sends  it 
to  me.  I  suppose  he  knows  the  editor.  He's 
always  knowing  the  editors  of  little,  no-ac- 
count magazines  and  having  to  sit  up  nights 
to  do  them  cover-designs  or  something ;  and 
then  they  send  him  their  magazines." 

"  But — I  mean — you  haven't  told  any 
one?"  stammered  Betty. 

Madeline  shook  her  head.  "  It  wouldn't 
make  a  pretty  story,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Madeline  " — Betty's  voice  thrilled  with 
earnestness — "  did  you  ever  think  you  ought 
to  tell  ?  " 

Madeline  stared  at  Betty  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  Then  her  gray  eyes  twinkled.  "  You 
absurd  little  Puritan,"  she  said,  "  is  that  what 
you're  bothering  your  head  about?  I  know 
you  don't  want  to  tell.  Why  aren't  you  satis- 
fied to  let  matters  take  their  course  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Betty  hesitated,  "  because  if  they 
take  their  course, — suppose,  Madeline,  that 


196        BErrr  WALES 

somebody  else  knows  and  wants  to  tell? 
Ought  I  to  interfere  with  that?  " 

Madeline  spread  out  her  hands  with  a  ges* 
bure  that  suggested  helpless  resignation.  "  My 
dear,  how  should  I  know  ?  You  see  in  Bo- 
hemia we're  all  honest — poor,  but  honest. 
We  never  have  anything  like  this  to  settle  be- 
cause we're  all  too  busy  enjoying  life  to  have 
time  to  envy  our  neighbors.  But  I  think  " — 
Madeline  paused  a  minute — "  I  think  if  a  man 
stole  a  design  and  got,  say  a  medal  at  the 
water-color  exhibit,  or  a  prize  at  the  Salon, 
I'd  let  him  have  it  and  I'd  try  to  see  that  he 
kept  it  in  a  conspicuous  place,  where  he'd  be 
sure  to  see  it  every  day.  I  think  the  sight  of 
his  medal  would  be  his  best  medicine.  If  he 
was  anything  of  a  man,  he'd  never  want  an- 
other of  the  same  sort,  and  if  he  was  all  cheat, 
he'd  be  found  out  soon  enough  without  my  help. 
So  I'd  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"  And  you  think  that  would  be  fair  to  the 
one  who  ought  to  have  had  the  medal  ?  " 

"  If  he  was  much  of  a  man  he  didn't  paint 
just  for  the  medal/'  returned  Madeline 
quickly.  "  He  painted  because  he  couldn't 
help  it, — because  he  meant  to  make  the  most 


SOPHOMORE  197 

of  himself, — and  a  medal  more  or  less — what's 
that  to  him  ?  "  She  turned  upon  Betty  sud- 
denly. "  Don't  you  see  that  the  great  fault 
with  the  life  here  is  that  we  think  too  little 
about  living  and  too  much  about  getting? 
These  societies  and  clubs  and  teams  and  com- 
mittees—they're not  the  best  things  in  life ; 
they're  nothing,  except  what  they  stand  for  in 
character  and  industry  and  talent.  No,  I 
shouldn't  worry  because  Eleanor  Watson  got 
into  Dramatic  Club,  if  that's  what  you  mean, 
and  may  get  into  other  things  because  she 
cribbed  a  story.  That  very  fact  will  take  all 
the  fun  out  of  it,  unless  she's  beneath  caring, 
— but  she  isn't  beneath  caring,"  Madeline  cor- 
rected herself  swiftly.  "  No  one  with  a  face 
like  hers  is  beyond  caring.  It's  the  most  beau- 
tiful face  I  ever  saw — and  one  of  the  saddest." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Madeline,"  said 
Betty,  soberly.  "  I'm  so  glad  I  could  talk  it 
over  with  you." 

Madeline  was  never  serious  for  long  at  a 
time.  "  I've  been  preaching  regular  sermons," 
she  said  with  a  laugh.  "  The  thing  I  don't 
understand  is  why  this  editor  of  '  The  Quiver ' 
hasn't  jumped  on  Miss  Watson  long  ago. 


198        BErrr  WALES 

Editors  are  always  reading  college  magazines 
— hoping  to  discover  a  genius,  I  suppose." 

"Are  they?"  said  Betty. 

A  tap  sounded  on  the  door. 

"  Don't  worry,  whatever  else  you  do, — and 
hide  your  magazine,"  said  Madeline,  and  was 
off  with  a  cheerful  greeting  for  Helen  Adams, 
who  had  come  back  from  her  afternoon  at 
T.  Reed's  crammed  full  of  Napoleonic  lore  and 
basket-ball  news. 

"  Theresa  had  made  a  table  of  dates  and 
events,"  said  Helen  eagerly.  "  I  copied  it  for 
you — it's  lots  of  help.  And  Betty,  she  says 
the  teams  are  going  to  be  chosen  soon,  and  she 
is  almost  sure  you  will  be  on." 

Madeline  Ayres  wondered  idly,  as  she 
dressed  for  dinner,  how  Betty  Wales  had  come 
into  possession  of  a  four  months'  old  magazine 
which  was  not  to  be  had  at  any  library  or 
book-store  in  Harding.  Then,  being  a  person 
born,  so  she  herself  asserted,  entirely  without 
curiosity,  she  ceased  wondering.  By  the  time 
dinner  was  over  and  she  had  related  a  budget 
of  her  Napoleonic  stories  to  a  delighted  group 
of  anxious  students,  she  had  actually  forgotten 
all  about  Eleanor's  affairs. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  BRIEF  FOE  THE  DEFENSE 

11  DEAR  DOROTHY — 

"  I  have  thought  and  thought  all  the  af- 
ternoon and  I  can't  do  it.  I  should  only " 

"  DEAR  DOROTHY — 

"  If  you  are  perfectly  sure  that  there  is 
nobody  else  to  go " 

"  DEAR  DOROTHY — 

"  Don't  you  think  that  Mary  Brooks  or 
Marion  Lawrence  would  be  a  lot  better? 
Mary  can  always  talk " 

"  Oh,  Dorothy,  I  don't  know  what  to 
say " 

Betty  had  slipped  up-stairs  to  her  room  the 
minute  dinner  was  over.  The  rest  of  the 
Belden  House  girls  still  lingered  in  the 
parlors,  talking  or  dancing, — enjoying  the 
brief  after-dinner  respite  that  is  a  welcome 

199 


200        BErrr  WALES 

feature  of  each  busy  day  at  Harding.  Ida 
Ludwig  was  playing  for  them.  She  had  a 
way  of  dashing  off  waltzes  and  two-steps  that 
gave  them  a  perfectly  irresistible  swing.  As 
Betty  wrote,  her  foot  beat  time  to  the  music 
that  floated  up,  faint  and  sweet  and  alluring, 
through  her  half-open  door.  The  floor  around 
her  was  strewn  with  sheets  of  paper  which 
she  had  torn,  one  after  another,  from  her  pad, 
and  tossed  impatiently  out  of  her  way. 

"  Such  a  goose  as  I  am,  trying  to  write  be- 
fore I've  made  up  my  mind  what  to  say ! " 
she  told  the  green  lizard,  as  she  sent  the 
seventh  attempt  flying  after  the  others.  "  And 
I  can't  make  it  up,"  she  added  despondently, 
and  shut  her  fountain  pen  with  a  vicious  lit- 
tle snap.  She  would  go  down  and  have  a 
two-step  with  Roberta,  who  had  been  Mary's 
guest  at  dinner.  Roberta  could  lead  beauti- 
fully— as  well  as  a  man — and  the  music  was 
too  good  to  lose.  Besides,  Roberta  might  feel 
hurt  at  her  having  run  off  the  minute  dinner 
was  over. 

A  shadow  suddenly  darkened  the  door  and 
Betty  turned  to  find  Eleanor  Watson  standing 
there,  smiling  radiantly  down  at  her. 


SOPHOMORE  201 

"  Eleanor  !  "  she  gasped  helplessly.  Some- 
how the  sight  of  the  real  Eleanor,  smiling 
and  lovely,  made  the  deceit  she  had  practiced 
seem  so  much  more  concrete  and  palpable,  the 
penalty  she  must  pay  at  best  so  much  more 
real  and  dreadful.  Betty  had  puzzled  over 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  matter  until  it 
had  come  to  be  almost  an  abstraction — a  sub- 
ject for  formal,  impersonal  debate,  like  those 
they  used  to  discuss  in  the  junior  English 
classes,  in  high  school  days — "  Resolved : 
that  it  is  right  to  help  plagiarists  to  try 
again."  Now  the  reality  of  it  all  was  forced 
upon  her.  In  spite  of  her  surprise  at  seeing 
Eleanor,  who  almost  never  came  to  her  room 
now,  and  her  dismay  that  she  should  have 
come  on  this  evening  in  particular,  she  found 
time  to  be  glad  that  she  had  not  yet  refused 
Dorothy's  request — and  time  to  be  a  little 
ashamed  of  herself  for  being  so  glad. 

Her  perturbation  showed  so  plainly  in  her 
face  and  manner  that  Eleanor  could  not  fail  to 
notice  it.  Her  smile  vanished  and  a  troubled 
look  stole  into  her  gray  eyes.  "  May  I  come 
in,  Betty  ? "  she  asked.  "  Or  are  you  too 
busy?" 


202 

"  No-o,"  stammered  Betty.  "  Come  in, 
Eleanor,  of  course.  I — I  was  just  writing  a 
note." 

Eleanor  glanced  at  the  floor,  littered  with 
all  Betty's  futile  beginnings,  and  her  smile 
came  flashing  back  again.  "  I  should  think," 
she  said,  "  that  you  must  be  writing  a  love 
letter— if  it  isn't  a  sonnet — judging  by  the 
trouble  it's  making  you.  They  told  me  down- 
stairs that  you  were  cramming  history,  but  I 
was  sure  it  would  take  more  than  a  mere 
history  cram  to  keep  you  away  from  that 
music.  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Betty.  "Would  you  like— 
shan't  we  go  down  and  dance  ?  "  It  would 
surely  be  easier  to  talk  down  there,  with 
plenty  of  people  about  who  did  not  know. 

Again  her  embarrassment  and  constraint 
were  too  evident  to  be  ignored,  and  this  time 
Eleanor  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter. 

"Betty,"  she  said,  "don't  tell  me  that 
you're  not  glad  to  see  me  back  again  after  all 
this  time.  I  know  I'm  queer  and  horrid 
and  not  worth  bothering  about,  but  when 
you  find  it  out, — when  you  give  me  up 


SOPHOMORE  203 

—you   and   Jim — I  shall   stop  trying  to  be 
different" 

For  an  instant  Betty  hesitated.  Then  the 
full  import  of  Eleanor's  words  flashed  upon 
her.  There  was  no  mistaking  their  sincerity. 
She  knew  at  last  that  she  did  "  really  mean 
something "  to  somebody.  Ethel  Hale  had 
been  wrong.  Eleanor  had  not  forgotten  her 
old  friends — and  Betty  would  go  to  New  York. 
With  a  happy  little  cry  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  and  caught  Eleanor's  hands  in  hers. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  feel  that  way,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  shall  never  stop  caring  what  you  do, 
Eleanor,  and  neither  will  Jim.  I  know  he 
won't." 

"  He  gave  me  up  once  before,  and  if  you 
knew  something "  She  broke  off  sud- 
denly. "  Betty,  Jim  is  coming  Friday  night. 
That's  one  reason  why  I'm  here.  I  didn't  want 
him  to  miss  seeing  you  just  because  I'd  been 
disagreeable  and  was  too  proud  to  come  and 
say  I'm  sorry.  I  am  sorry,  Betty, — I'm  al- 
ways sorry  when  it's  just  too  late." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  knew  you  didn't 
mean  anything,"  said  Betty,  hastily.  Apolo- 
gies always  made  her  nervous,  and  this  par- 


204        BErrr 

ticular  one  was  fraught  with  unpleasant 
suggestions  little  guessed  at  by  its  maker. 
"  You'll  be  awfully  glad  to  see  your  brother, 
won't  you  ?  " 

Eleanor's  assent  was  half-hearted.  "  To  tell 
the  truth,  I'm  too  tired  to  care  much  what 
happens." 

"  Oh,  you  won't  feel  tired  when  he  gets 
here,"  suggested  Betty,  cheerfully. 

Eleanor  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  tired  all 
through,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe  I  shall 
ever  be  rested  again." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  entertain 
him  ? "  asked  Betty,  wishing  to  change  the 
current  of  Eleanor's  thoughts,  since  she  did 
not  dare  to  sympathize  with  them. 

Eleanor  detailed  her  plans,  explained  that 
Judge  Watson  had  suddenly  been  called  home 
from  Cornell  and  so  was  not  coming  with 
Jim,  according  to  the  summer  plan  that  Betty 
remembered,  and  rose  to  go.  "  I  know  you'll 
like  Jim,  Betty,"  she  said,  "  and  he'll  like  you. 
He's  your  kind." 

The  moment  she  was  left  alone,  Betty  sat 
down  again  at  her  desk  and  dashed  off  her 
note  to  Dorothy. 


SOPHOMORE  205 

"  DEAR  DOROTHY  : 

"  I  have  thought  it  over  and  seen 
Eleanor.  I  am  the  one  to  go,  and  I'll  do  my 
best. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  BETTY. 
"  P.  S.— I  can't  start  till  Wednesday." 

She  twisted  the  note  into  a  neat  little  roll, 
and  slipping  ,out  the  back  way  went  down  to 
leave  it  at  the  florist's,  to  be  sent  to  Dorothy 
— securely  hidden  in  a  big  bunch  of  English 
violets,  lest  any  martinet  of  a  nurse  should 
see  fit  to  suppress  it — the  very  first  thing  in 
the  morning.  On  the  way  back  to  her  room 
she  danced  up  the  stairs  in  her  most  joyous 
fashion,  and  when  Mary  Brooks,  coming  up 
from  escorting  Roberta  to  the  door,  inter- 
cepted her  and  demanded  where  she  had  been 
all  the  evening,  she  chanted,  "  Curiosity  killed 
a  cat,"  and  fled  from  Mary's  wrath  with  a 
little  shriek  of  delight,  exactly  as  if  there 
were  no  such  things  in  the  world  as  plagiarism 
and  hard-hearted  editors.  For  had  not  Elea- 
nor come  back  to  her,  and  was  not  the  diffi- 
cult decision  made  at  last  ? 

And  yet,  when  Betty  was  a  senior  and  took 


2o6 

the  course  in  Elizabethan  tragedies,  she  al- 
ways thought  of  the  visit  of  Jim  Watson  as  a 
perfect  example  in  real  life  of  the  comic  inter- 
lude, by  which  the  king  of  Elizabethan  dram- 
atists is  wont  to  lighten,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  accentuate,  his  analyses  of  the  bitter 
consequences  of  wrong-doing.  For  close  upon 
her  first  great  relief  at  finding  her  decision 
made,  followed  a  sudden  realization  that  the 
incident  was  not  yet  closed.  Madeline  had 
read  the  November  "  Quiver " ;  some  less 
charitable  person  might  have  done  likewise. 
If  she  had  been  careless  in  leaving  her  maga- 
zine in  sight,  so  might  one  of  the  three  editors 
have  been  careless,  with  disastrous  results. 
Mr.  Blake  might  write  to  the  college  author- 
ities. Everything,  in  short,  might  come  out 
before  Jim  Watson  had  finished  his  week-end 
visit  to  Harding.  Helping  to  entertain  him 
seemed  therefore  a  good  deal  like  amusing 
oneself  on  the  verge  of  a  crackling  volcano. 

Jim's  personality  made  it  all  the  harder ; 
he  was  so  boyishly  light-hearted,  so  tre- 
mendously proud  of  Eleanor,  so  splendid  and 
downright  himself,  with  a  flash  in  his  fine 
eyes — the  only  feature  in  which  he  resembled 


SOPHOMORE  207 

Eleanor — and  a  quiver  about  his  sensitive 
mouth,  that  suggested  how  deep  would  be  his 
grief  and  how  unappeasable  his  anger,  if  he 
ever  found  out  with  what  coin  his  sister  had 
bought  her  college  honors. 

He  "  blew  in,"  to  use  his  own  phrase  for  it, 
on  an  earlier  train  than  Eleanor  had  ex- 
pected, and  marched  up  to  the  Hilton  House 
with  a  jaunty  air  of  perfect  ease  and  assur- 
ance. But  really,  he  confided  to  Eleanor,  he 
was  in  a  "  blooming  blue  funk  "  all  the  way. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  ?  "  he  added  rue- 
fully, "  somehow  I  got  mixed  up  with  the 
matron  or  whatever  you  call  her.  I  thought, 
you  see,  that  this  was  like  a  boarding-school, 
and  that  I'd  got  to  have  some  gorgon  or  other 
vouch  for  me  before  I  could  see  you.  So  I 
asked  for  her  first,  and  she's  invited  me  to 
dinner.  Did  you  say  there  were  thirty  girls 
in  this  house  ?  Sixty  !  I  see  my  finish  !  " 
concluded  Jim,  dolefully. 

Nevertheless  he  rose  to  the  occasion  and,  en- 
sconced between  Eleanor  and  the  matron  he 
entertained  the  latter,  and  incidentally  the 
whole  table,  with  tales  of  mountain-climbing, 
broncho-busting  and  bear-hunting,  that  made 


208        BErrr  WALES 

him  at  once  a  hero  in  the  eyes  of  the  girls. 
But  Jim  disclaimed  all  intention  of  following 
up  his  conquest,  just  as  he  had,  though  in- 
effectually, disclaimed  any  part  in  the  thrill- 
ing escapades  of  his  stories. 

"  I  can  talk  to  a  bunch  of  girls  if  I  have  to, 
but  if  you  leave  me  alone  with  one,  I  shall  do 
the  scared  rabbit  act  straight  back  to  Cornell," 
he  warned  Eleanor.  "  I  came  to  see  you. 
Dad  and  I  compared  notes  and  we  decided 
that  something  was  up." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  laughed  Eleanor,  but  her 
eyes  fell  under  Jim's  steady  gaze,  and  her 
cheeks  flushed.  "  Well  then,  I'm  tired,"  she 
admitted.  "  I  suppose  I've  done  too  much." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  retorted  Jim,  savagely. 
"  Quit  it,  Eleanor.  If  you  break  down,  what 
good  will  it  do  you  to  have  written  a  fine 
story  ?  I  say  " — his  tone  was  reproachful — 
"one  of  those  girls  at  the  dinner  you  gave 
last  night  said  your  story  was  printed  some- 
where, and  you  never  sent  it  to  dad  and  me. 
You  never  even  told  us  about  it." 

"  It  wasn't  worth  while." 

"  You  might  let  us  decide  about  that.  The 
girl  at  the  dinner  said  it  was  a  corker,  and  got 


SOPHOMORE  209 

you  into  some  swell  club  or  other.  That's  an- 
other thing  you  didn't  write  us  about." 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor,  wearily.  "  You  can't 
expect  me  to  write  every  little  thing  that  hap- 
pens, Jim." 

Jim,  who  remembered  exactly  what  his  fair 
informant  had  said  regarding  the  importance 
of  a  Dramatic  Club  "  first  election,"  knit  his 
brows  and  wondered  which  of  them  was  right. 
Finally  he  gave  up  the  perplexing  question 
and  went  off  to  order  a  farewell  box  of  roses 
for  his  sister. 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  Betty  Wales, 
going  sorrowfully  to  pay  a  book  bill  that  was 
twice  as  large  as  she  had  anticipated,  heard  swift, 
determined  steps  behind  her,  and  turned  to 
find  Jim  Watson  swinging  after  her  down 
Main  Street. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Wales,"  he  began,  blushing 
hotly  at  his  own  temerity,  "  Eleanor  is  off  at 
a  class  this  hour.  I'm  such  a  duffer  with 
girls — is  it  all  right  for  me  to  ask  you  to  go 
for  a  walk  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Betty,  laughing.  "  And  if 
you  ask  me,  I'll  go." 

*  Then,"  said  Jim,  "  I  do  ask  you.     You'll 


210 

have  to  pick  out  a  trail,  for  I  don't  know  th% 
country." 

"  Let's  walk  out  to   the  river,"  suggested 
Betty.     "  It's  not  so  very  pretty  at  this  season 
of  the  year,  but  it's  our  prize  walk,  so  you 
ought  to  see  it  anyhow." 
v  Silently  Jim  fell  into  step  beside  her. 

"Have  you  had  a  good  time?"  inquired 
Betty,  who  had  decided  by  this  time  that  Jim 
really  enjoyed  talking,  only  he  couldn't  man- 
age it  without  a  good  deal  of  help.  She  had 
seen  more  of  him  in  the  three  days  of  his  visit 
than  any  one  else  but  Eleanor,  but  this  was 
their  first  tete-a-tete.  Hitherto,  when  Eleanor 
was  busy  Jim  had  gone  on  solitary  tramps  or 
sought  the  friendly  shelter  of  his  hotel. 

"  Great,"  replied  Jim,  enthusiastically. 
"  Harding  College  is  all  right.  I'm  mighty 
glad  Eleanor  wanted  to  stay  on  here." 

"  You're  very  fond  of  Eleanor,  aren't  you  ?  " 
asked  Betty,  sure  that  this  topic  would  draw 
him  out. 

"  You  bet."  Jim's  eyes  shone  with  pleas- 
ure. "  Eleanor's  a  trump  when  she  gets  started. 
She  was  splendid  at  home  this  summer.  Of 
course  you  know  " — Jim  flushed  again  under 


SOPHOMORE  211 

his  tan — "  my  mother — I'm  awfully  fond  of 
her  too,  but  of  course  her  being  so  young 
makes  it  queer  for  Eleanor.  But  Eleanor 
fixed  everything  all  right.  She  made  dad 
and  me,  and  mother  too,  just  fall  dead  in  love 
with  her.  You  know  the  way  she  can." 

Betty  nodded.     "  I  know." 

"  And  I  guess  she's  made  good  here,  too," 
said  Jim,  proudly,  "  though  you'd  never  find 
it  out  from  her.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Wales, 
she  never  wrote  us  a  word  about  her  story 
that  came  out  in  the  college  magazine." 

"  Didn't  she?  "  said  Betty,  faintly. 

"  Nor  about  getting  into  some  club,"  con- 
tinued Jim,  earnestly.  "  I  forget  the  name, 
but  you'll  know.  Isn't  it  considered  quite  an 
honor?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Betty,  in  despair,  "  that 

is,  some  people  consider  it Oh,  Mr. 

Watson,  here's  the  bridge  !  " 

Poor  Jim,  unhesitatingly  attributing  Betty's 
embarrassment  to  some  blunder  on  his  part, 
was  covered  with  mortification.  "  It's  evi- 
dently a  secret  society,"  he  decided,  "  and 
that  other  fool  girl  didn't  know  it,  and  got 
me  into  this  mess." 


212         BErrr  WALES 

So  he  listened  with  deferential  attention 
while  Betty  tried  to  tell  him  how  lovely  the 
snowy  meadows  and  the  bleak,  ice-bound  river 
looked  on  a  bright  June  day,  and  carefully 
followed  her  lead  as  she  turned  the  conversa- 
tion from  river  scenery  to  skating  and  canoe- 
ing ;  so  that  they  reached  home  without  a 
second  approach  to  the  dangerous  topics. 

Jim  was  going  back  to  his  work  that  even- 
ing. As  he  said  good-bye,  he  crushed  Betty's 
hand  in  a  bear-like  grip  that  fairly  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  to  have  met  you,"  he 
said,  "  though  I  don't  suppose  you'd  ever 
guess  it — I'm  such  a  duffer  with  girls.  Elea- 
nor told  me  how  you  stuck  by  her  last  year 
and  helped  her  get  her  start.  I  tell  you  we 
appreciate  anything  that's  done  for  Eleanor, 
dad  and  I  do." 

As  Betty  watched  him  stride  off  to  the 
Hilton  House,  she  remembered  Madeline's 
advice.  "  I  guess  she  isn't  enjoying  her 
honors  very  much,"  she  thought.  "  Imagine 
getting  into  Dramatic  Club  and  not  writing 
home  about  it !  Why,  I  should  telegraph ! 
And  if  I  had  a  thing  in  the  '  Argus  '  " — Betty 


SOPHOMORE  213 

smiled  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea — "  half 
the  fun  would  be  to  see  Nan's  face.  And  if  I 
was  ashamed  to  see  her  face  !  " 

Betty  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  that  the  comic 
interlude  was  over.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances the  entertaining  of  Jim  would  have 
been  the  height  of  bliss.  Just  now  all  she 
wanted  was  to  go  to  New  York  and  get 
back  again,  with  her  errand  done  and  one 
source  of  danger  to  Eleanor,  if  possible, 
eliminated. 

Jim  left  Harding  on  Tuesday  evening. 
Wednesday  morning  bright  and  early,  Betty 
started  for  New  York.  She  went  by  the  early 
train  for  two  reasons.  It  was  easier  to  slip 
away  unquestioned  during  chapel-time,  and 
furthermore  she  meant  to  reach  New  York  in 
time  to  see  Mr.  Blake  that  same  afternoon 
and  take  the  sleeper  back  to  Harding.  She 
thought  that  spending  the  night  with  any  of 
her  New  York  cousins  would  involve  too 
much  explanation,  and  besides  she  could  sleep 
beautifully  on  the  train,  and  she  wanted  to  be 
back  in  time  for  the  Thursday  basket-ball 
practice.  The  girls  played  every  day  now, 
and  very  often  Miss  Andrews  dropped  in  to 


214 

watch  them  and  take  the  measure  of  the 
various  aspirants  for  a  place  on  the  official 
teams,  which  it  would  soon  be  her  duty  to 
appoint 


CHAPTER  XIII 

VICTORY   OR    DEFEAT 

DURING  the  first  part  of  her  journey  Betty 
busied  herself  with  reading  over  Mr.  Blake's 
two  letters  and  the  lengthy  replies  that  the 
editors  had  composed.  These  last  were  as 
totally  unlike  as  their  writers,  and  Betty 
thought  that  none  of  them  hit  the  point  so 
well  as  Madeline's  suggestions,  and  none  was 
so  cogent  as  the  plea  that  Eleanor  and  Jim 
between  them  had  unconsciously  made ;  but 
they  might  all  help.  From  Mr.  Blake's  two 
letters  she  decided  that  he  must  be  a  very 
queer  sort  of  person,  and  she  devoutly  hoped 
that  his  conversational  style  would  be  less 
obscure  than  that  of  his  first  letter  to  Frances 
West ;  for  it  would  be  dreadful,  she  thought, 
if  she  had  to  keep  asking  him  what  he  meant. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  shall  just  have  to  trust  to 
luck  and  do  the  best  I  can  when  the  time 
comes,"  she  decided,  putting  the  letters  back 


216        BErrr 

into  her  suit-case  with  a  little  sigh.  She  ad- 
mired Helen  Adams's  way  of  deliberately  pre- 
paring for  a  crisis,  but  in  her  own  case  it 
somehow  never  seemed  to  work.  For  ex- 
ample, how  could  she  plan  what  to  say  to 
Mr.  Blake  until  she  knew  what  Mr.  Blake 
would  say  to  her  ?  It  would  be  bad  enough 
to  try  to  answer  him  when  the  time  came, 
without  worrying  about  it  now. 

After  a  brief  survey  of  the  flying  land- 
scape, which  looked  uniformly  cold  and  unin- 
viting under  a  leaden  sky,  and  of  her  fellow- 
travelers,  none  of  whom  promised  any  possi- 
bilities of  amusement,  Betty  remembered  that 
she  had  intended  to  study  all  the  way  to  New 
York,  and  accordingly  extracted  Chaucer's 
"  Canterbury  Tales  "  from  her  bag.  For  half 
an  hour  she  read  the  Knight's  tale  busily. 
But  the  adventures  of  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
deciphered  by  means  of  assiduous  reference  to 
the  glossary,  were  not  exciting  ;  at  the  end  of 
the  half  hour  Betty's  head  drooped  back 
against  the  plush  cushions,  her  eyes  closed, 
and  her  book  slid  unheeded  to  the  floor.  Re- 
gardless of  all  the  elegant  leisure  that  she  had 
meant  to  secure  by  a  diligent  five-hour  attack 


SOPHOMORE  217 

upon  "The  Canterbury  Tales,"  Betty  had 
fallen  fast  asleep. 

Some  time  later  the  jolt  of  the  halting  train 
woke  her.  She  glanced  at  her  watch — it  was 
twelve  o'clock — and  looked  out  for  the  station 
sign.  But  there  was  no  station  sign  and  no 
station ;  only  snowy  fields  stretching  off  to 
meet  wooded  hills  on  one  side  and  the  gorge 
of  a  frozen  river  on  the  other.  It  had  been  a 
gray,  sunless  morning  ;  now  the  air  was  thick 
with  snow,  falling  in  big,  lazily-moving  flakes 
which  seemed  undecided  whether  or  not  the 
journey  they  were  making  was  worth  their 
while.  All  this  Betty  saw  through  small  bare 
spots  on  the  heavily  frosted  car  windows.  She 
picked  up  "  The  Canterbury  Tales  "  from  the 
floor  where  they  had  fallen,  found  her  place 
and  sat  with  her  finger  in  the  book,  anxiously 
waiting  for  the  train  to  go  on.  But  it  did  not 
start.  The  other  passengers  also  grew  restless, 
and  asked  one  another  what  could  be  the 
trouble.  There  were  plenty  of  guesses,  but 
nobody  knew  until  Betty  managed  to  stop  a 
passing  brakeman  and  asked  him  if  they  were 
going  to  be  late  into  New  York. 

"  Oh,  my,  yes,  ma'am,"  he  assured  her  af- 


218        BErrr  WALES 

fably.  "  We're  about  an  hour  late  now,  and 
there's  no  tellin'  how  long  we'll  stand  here. 
There's  been  a  big  blizzard  and  an  awful 

freeze-up  in  the  west "  he  waved  his  hand 

at  the  frosty  window.  "  We  do  be  gettin'  a 
bit  of  it  now  ourselves,  you  see — and  the  con- 
nections is  all  out  of  whack." 

This  was  a  cheerful  prospect.  The  train 
was  due  in  New  York  at  half  past  one.  Al- 
low half  an  hour  for  the  present  delay  and  it 
would  be  fully  half  past  three  before  Betty 
could  reach  Mr.  Blake's  office.  Besides,  she 
had  brought  nothing  to  eat  except  some  sweet 
chocolate,  for  she  had  planned  to  get  lunch  in 
New  York.  It  was  most  provoking.  She 
settled  herself  once  more,  a  cake  of  chocolate 
to  nibble  in  one  hand  and  her  book  in  the 
other,  resolved  to  endure  the  rest  of  the  jour- 
ney with  what  stoicism  she  might. 

Finally,  after  having  exhausted  the  entire 
half  hour  that  she  had  allowed  it,  the  train 
started  with  a  puff  and  a  wheeze,  and  ambled 
on  toward  its  destination,  with  frequent  brief 
pauses  to  get  its  breath  or  to  accommodate  the 
connections  that  were  "  all  out  of  whack,"  and 
a  final  long  and  agonizing  wait  in  the  yarda 


SOPHOMORE  219 

That  was  the  last  straw — to  be  so  near  the 
goal  and  yet  helplessly  stranded  just  out  of 
reach.  Wishing  to  verify  her  own  calcula- 
tions, Betty  leaned  forward  and  asked  a 
friendly-looking,  gray-haired  woman  in  the 
seat  ahead  if  she  knew  just  how  long  it  would 
take  to  go  from  the  Forty-second  Street  sta- 
tion to  Fulton  Street. 

The  woman  considered.  "  Not  less  than 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  I  should  say,  un- 
less you  took  a  Subway  express  to  the  bridge, 
and  changed  there.  Then  perhaps  you  might 
do  it  in  half  an  hour." 

Betty  thanked  her  and  sat  back,  watch  in 
hand,  counting  the  minutes  and  wondering 
what  she  would  better  do  if  she  had  to  stay  in 
New  York  all  night.  In  spite  of  some  disad- 
vantages, it  would  be  much  the  best  plan,  she 
decided,  to  go  to  her  cousins.  But  never 
thinking  of  any  such  contingency  as  the  one 
that  had  arisen,  she  had  left  her  address  book 
at  Harding,  and  she  had  a  very  poor  memory 
for  numbers.  She  remembered  vaguely  one 
hundred  twenty-one,  and  was  sure  that  cousin 
Will  Banning  lived  on  East  Seventy-second 
Street.  But  was  his  number  one  twenty-one, 


220        BErrr  WALES 

or  was  it  three  hundred  forty-something,  and 
Cousin  Alice's  one  twenty-one  on  One  Hun- 
dred and  Second  Street?  Was  that  east  or 
west,  and  was  it  Cousin  Alice's  address  before 
or  after  she  moved  last?  The  more  Betty 
thought,  and  the  more  certain  it  seemed  that 
she  could  not  reach  Mr.  Blake's  office  by  any 
route  before  five  o'clock,  the  more  confused 
she  became.  She  had  never  been  about  in 
New  York  alone,  and  she  had  a  horror  of  go- 
ing in  the  rapidly  falling  dusk  from  one  num- 
ber to  another  in  a  strange  city,  and  then  per- 
haps not  finding  her  cousins  in  the  end.  Then 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  stay  at  a  hotel. 
Luckily  Betty  did  remember  very  distinctly 
the  name  of  the  one  that  Nan  often  stopped 
at  alone.  She  leaned  forward  again  and  asked 
the  lady  in  front  to  direct  her  to  it. 

"  Yes,  I  can  do  that,"  said  the  lady  brightly, 
"or  if  you  like  I  can  take  you  to  it.  I'm 
going  there  myself.  Aren't  you  a  Harding 
girl?" 

Betty  assented. 

"  And  I'm  the  matron  at  the  Davidson," 
said  the  gray-haired  lady. 

"  You  are  I  "  Betty's  tone  expressed  infinite 


SOPHOMORE  221 

relief.  "  And  I  may  really  come  with  you  ? 
I'm  so  glad.  I  never  went  to  a  hotel  alone." 
And  she  explained  briefly  why  she  was 
obliged  to  do  so  now. 

The  snow  was  still  falling  softly  when  they 
finally  reached  New  York  and  boarded  a 
crowded  car  to  ride  the  few  blocks  to  their 
hotel.  It  seemed  that  Betty's  new  friend  had 
come  down  to  visit  her  son,  who  was  ill  at  a 
hospital.  She  helped  Betty  through  the  try- 
ing ordeal  of  registering  and  getting  a  room, 
and  they  went  to  the  cafe  together  for  a  little 
supper.  Then  she  hurried  off  to  her  son,  and 
Betty  was  left  to  her  own  devices.  She 
despatched  a  special-delivery  letter  to  Helen, 
explaining  why  she  could  not  take  the  sleeper 
— Helen  had  the  impression  that  Betty  had 
gone  to  New  York  to  have  her  hair  waved  and 
was  ashamed  to  confess  to  such  frivolity. 
Then  she  yawned  for  a  while  over  "  The  Can- 
terbury Tales/'  and  went  to  bed  early,  so  as  to 
be  in  perfect  trim  for  the  next  day's  interview. 
She  intended  to  see  Mr.  Blake  as  early  as  pos- 
sible in  the  morning  and  take  a  noon  train  for 
Harding. 

"  And  I  do  hope  there  isn't  going  to  be  a 


222         BErrr  WALES 

blizzard  here,"  she  thought,  as  she  fell  asleep 
to  the  angry  howling  of  the  wind,  which 
dashed  the  snow,  now  frozen  into  tiny,  icy 
globules,  against  her  window  panes. 

But  her  hope  was  not  destined  to  be  realized. 
When  she  woke  later  than  usual  the  next 
morning,  with  a  queer  feeling  of  not  knowing 
where  she  was  nor  what  had  happened,  the 
storm  was  still  raging  furiously.  The  street 
beneath  her  windows  was  piled  high  with  im- 
passable drifts,  which  were  getting  higher 
every  minute,  while  on  the  opposite  side  a 
narrow  strip  of  roadway  was  as  clean  as  if  it 
had  been  swept  with  the  proverbial  new 
broom.  It  was  snowing  so  hard  that  Betty 
could  not  see  to  the  corner  of  the  street,  and 
the  wind  was  blowing  a  gale. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Betty  philosophically. 
"  Here  goes  for  seeing  New  York  in  a  blizzard. 
I've  always  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  like." 
And  she  began  making  energetic  preparations 
for  breakfast. 

When  she  got  down-stairs  she  found  a  hasty 
note  from  her  friend  of  the  day  before,  ex- 
plaining that  her  son  was  worse  and  she  had 
gone  as  early  as  possible  to  the  hospital.  So 


SOPHOMORE  22$ 

Betty  breakfasted  in  solitary  state  on  rolls 
and  coffee, — for  her  exchequer  was  beginning 
to  suffer  from  the  unexpected  demands  that 
she  had  made  upon  it, — paid  her  bill,  and  bag 
in  hand  sallied  forth  to  meet  the  storm.  Be- 
fore she  had  plowed  her  way  to  the  nearest 
corner,  she  decided  that  a  blizzard  in  New 
York  was  no  joke.  While  she  waited  there  in 
the  teeth  of  the  wind,  bracing  herself  against 
it  as  it  blew  her  hair  in  her  eyes,  whipped  her 
skirt  about  her  ankles,  and  swept  the  snow, 
sharp  and  cutting  as  needle-points,  pitilessly 
against  her  cheeks,  she  was  more  than  half 
minded  to  give  up  seeing  Mr.  Blake  alto- 
gether and  go  straight  to  the  station.  But  it 
was  not  Betty's  way  to  give  up.  She  brushed 
back  her  flying  hair,  held  up  her  muff  as  pro- 
tection against  the  wind,  and  when  her  car 
finally  arrived,  tumbled  on  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief and  then  a  laugh  all  to  herself  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  whole  situation. 

"  Mr.  Blake  will  want  to  laugh  too  when  he 
sees  me,"  she  thought,  "  and  perhaps  that  will 
be  a  good  beginning." 

In  this  cheerful  mood  Betty  presently  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  "  The  Quiver  "  office.  She 


224 

made  a  wry  face  as  she  shook  the  snow  out  of 
her  furs,  straightened  her  hat  and  smoothed 
her  hair.  It  was  too  bad  to  have  to  go  in 
looking  like  a  fright,  after  all  the  pains  she 
had  taken  to  wear  her  most  becoming  clothes, 
so  as  to  look,  and  to  feel,  as  impressive  as 
possible.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  never 
looked  prettier  than  when,  having  done  her 
best  to  repair  the  ravages  of  the  wind,  she 
stood  waiting  a  moment  longer  to  get  her 
breath  and  decide  how  she  should  ask  for  Mr. 
Blake  and  what  she  should  say  when  she  was 
summoned  into  his  awful  presence.  Her 
cheeks  were  glowing  with  the  cold,  her  eyes 
bright  with  excitement,  and  her  hair  blown 
into  damp  little  curls  that  were  far  more  be- 
coming than  any  more  studied  arrangement 
would  have  been.  Mr.  Richard  Blake  would 
indeed  be  difficult  to  please  if  he  failed  to  find 
her  charming. 

She  gave  a  final  pat  to  her  hair,  loosened 
her  furs,  and  knocked  boldly  on  the  office 
door.  There  was  no  answer.  Betty  had 
reached  out  her  hand  to  knock  again  when  it 
occurred  to  her  that  people  who  came  to  her 
father's  office  walked  right  in.  So  she  care- 


SOPHOMORE  225* 

fully  opened  the  door  and  stepping  just  inside, 
closed  it  again  after  her.  She  found  herself 
in  a  big,  bare  room,  with  three  or  four  desks 
near  the  long  windows  and  a  table  by  the 
door.  Only  one  desk  was  occupied — the  one 
in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room.  The  young 
man  sitting  behind  it — he  was  very  young  in- 
deed, smooth-shaven,  with  expressionless, 
heavy-lidded  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  drooped 
cynically  at  the  corners, — barely  glanced  at 
his  visitor,  and  then  dropped  his  eyes  once 
more  to  the  papers  on  his  desk.  Betty  waited 
a  moment,  while  he  wrote  rapidly  on  the  mar- 
gin of  one  sheet  with  a  blue  pencil,  and  then, 
seeing  that  he  apparently  intended  to  go  on 
reading  and  writing  indefinitely,  she  gave  a 
deprecating  little  cough. 

"  Is  Mr.  Richard  Blake  in  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  young  man  behind 
the  desk,  without  so  much  as  glancing  in  her 
direction. 

"  Can — may  I  see  him,  please  ?  " 

"  You  can,"  returned  the  young  man,  em- 
phasizing the  word  can  in  what  Betty  thought 
an  extremely  disagreeable  way. 

He  made  no  move  to  go  and  get  Mr.  Blake, 


226 

and  Betty,  knowing  nothing  else  to  do, 
awaited  his  pleasure  in  silence. 

"Is  it  so  very  important  as  all  this  ?  "  asked 
the  young  man  at  last,  tossing  aside  his  papers 
and  coming  toward  Betty  with  disconcerting 
suddenness.  "  You  know,"  he  went  on,  "  I 
can't  possibly  read  it  to-day.  I'm  desperately 
busy.  I  shall  put  it  in  a  pigeon-hole  and  I 
shan't  look  at  it  for  weeks  perhaps.  So  I  can't 
see  that  it  was  worth  your  while  to  come  out 
in  a  storm  like  this  to  bring  it  to  me." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Richard  Blake?"  demanded 
Betty,  wishing  to  get  at  least  one  thing  defi- 
nitely settled. 

The  young  man  nodded.  "  I  am,"  he  said, 
"  but  pray  how  did  you  arrive  at  your  conclu- 
sion— so  late  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Betty  promptly,  "  you  talk 
exactly  as  your  letters  sound." 

"  That's  interesting,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  How  do  they  sound  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Betty,  blushing  at  her  own 
temerity,  "  that  they  are  hard  to  understand." 

The  young  man  appeared  to  be  considering 
this  remark  with  great  seriousness.  "  That 
implies,"  he  began  at  last  very  slowly,  "  that 


SOPHOMORE  227 

you  must  have  had  either  a  letter  of  accept- 
ance or  a  personal  note  of  refusal  from '  The 
Quiver.'  So  perhaps  your  story  is  worth 
coming  out  in  a  blizzard  to  bring  after  all. 
Anyway,  since  you  have  brought  it  out  in  a 
blizzard,  I'll  just  glance  over  it,  if  you  care  to 
wait." 

Betty  stared  at  Mr.  Richard  Blake  in  grow- 
ing bewilderment.  "  I  think  you  must  have 
mistaken  me  for  some  one  else/'  she  said  at 
last.  "  You  don't  know  me  at  all,  Mr.  Blake, 
and  you  never  wrote  to  me.  The  letter  that  I 
saw  was  written  to  some  one  else." 

"  Indeed  !  And  am  I  also  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  you  have  brought  me  a  story  for 
'  The  Quiver '  ?  " 

"  I  brought  you  a  story  for  '  The  Quiver ' !  " 
gasped  Betty.  Then  all  at  once  she  took  in 
the  situation  and  laughed  so  merrily  that  even 
the  blase  young  editor  of  "  The  Quiver  "  was 
forced  to  smile  a  little  in  sympathy.  "  I  see 
now,"  she  said,  when  she  could  speak.  "  You 
thought  I  was  a  writer — an  authoress.  I  sup- 
pose that  most  of  the  people  who  come  to  see 
an  editor  are  authors,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  man  gravely.     "  The 


228        BErrr  WALES 

only  possible  reason  that  has  ever  brought  a 
pretty  young  woman  to  '  The  Quiver '  office  is 
the  vain  hope  that  because  I  have  seen  that 
she  is  pretty,  I  shall  like  her  story  better  than 
I  otherwise  would." 

"  Well,"  said  Betty,  too  intent  upon  coming 
to  the  point  to  be  either  annoyed  or  amused 
by  Mr.  Blake's  frank  implication,  "  I  haven't 
come  about  a  story.  Or — that  is,  I  have  too. 
I  came  to  see  you  about  Eleanor  Watson's 
story — the  one  that  is  so  like  '  The  Lost  Hope ' 
in  the  November  '  Quiver.' ' 

"  Indeed  !  "  The  young  man's  face  grew 
suddenly  sombre  again.  "  Won't  you  have  a 
seat  ? "  He  led  the  way  back  to  his  desk, 
placing  a  chair  for  Betty  beside  his  own. 
"  Let  us  make  a  fair  start,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
his  seat.  "  You  mean  the  story  that  was 
copied  from  '  The  Quiver,'  I  suppose." 

"  Yes."  Betty  hesitated,  wondering  if  she 
was  being  led  into  some  damaging  confession. 
But  she  had  not  come  to  palter  with  the  truth. 
"  I'm  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  was 
copied  from  '  The  Quiver,'  Mr.  Blake." 

"  Did  you  know  that  it  was  a  better  Btory 
than  the  one  in  '  The  Quiver '  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  229 

Betty's  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure.  "  Do 
you  really  think  so  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly.  "  I'm 
so  glad,  because  I  did,  too,  only  I  was  afraid  I 
might  be  prejudiced.  But  you  wouldn't  be." 
Betty  stopped  in  confusion,  for  Mr.  Blake  had 
abruptly  turned  his  back  upon  her,  and  was 
staring  out  the  nearest  window  at  the  mist  of 
flying  snow. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  or  at  least  it  seemed 
oppressively  long  to  Betty,  who  had  no  idea 
what  it  meant.  Then  "  To  whom  have  I  the 
honor  of  speaking  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Blake  in  the 
queer,  sarcastic  tone  that  had  annoyed  Betty 
earlier  in  the  interview. 

As  briefly  as  possible  Betty  explained  who 
she  was,  and  why  she  had  come  as  special 
envoy  from  the  editors.  She  was  relieved 
when  Mr.  Blake  turned  back  from  his  sur- 
vey of  the  landscape  with  another  faint  sug- 
gestion  of  a  smile  flickering  about  his  grim 
mouth. 

"  You  relieve  me  immensely,  Miss  Wales," 
he  said.  "  I  was  quite  sure  you  were  not  an 
editor  of  the  '  Argus,'  because  you  seemed  so 
totally  unfamiliar  with  the  machinery  of  liter- 
ary ventures ;  and  so  I  supposed,  or  at  least  I 


230        BErrr  WALES 

feared,  that  Miss  Watson  had  come  to  speak 
for  herself." 

Betty  flushed  angrily.  "  Why,  Mr.  Blake, 
do  I  look " 

"  No,  you  don't  in  the  least,"  Mr.  Blake  in- 
terrupted her  hastily.  "  But  unfortunately, 
you  must  admit,  appearances  are  sometimes 
deceitful.  Now  suppose  that  your  friend  Miss 
Watson  had  come  herself.  Does  she  look  or 
act  like  the  sort  of  person  that  she  has  shown 
herself  to  be?" 

Betty  smiled  brightly.  "  Of  course  not," 
she  said.  "  She  doesn't  at  all.  But  then  she 
isn't  that  sort  of  person.  I  mean  she  never 
will  be  again.  If  she  was,  I  can  tell  you  that 
I  shouldn't  be  here.  It's  just  because  she's  so 
splendid  when  she  thinks  in  time  and  tries  to 
be  nice,  and  because  she  hasn't  any  mother 
and  never  had  half  a  chance  that  I'm  sorry 
for  her  now.  And  besides,  it's  certainly  pun- 
ishment enough  to  see  that  story  in  the 
'  Argus,'  and  know  she  didn't  write  it,  and  to 
get  into  Dramatic  Club  partly  because  of  it, 
and  so  have  that  spoiled  for  her  too,  and  not 
to  be  able  to  let  her  family  be  one  bit  proud 
of  her.  Don't  you  see  that  an  open  disgrace 


SOPHOMORE  231 

wouldn't  mean  any  more  punishment?  It 
would  only  make  it  harder  for  her  to  be  fair 
and  square  again.  It  isn't  as  if  she  didn't 
care.  She  hates  herself  for  it,  Mr.  Blake,  I 
know  she  does." 

Betty  paused  for  breath  and  Mr.  Richard 
Blake  took  the  opportunity  to  speak.  "What, 
may  I  ask,  is  the  Dramatic  Club?  " 

"  Oh,  a  splendid  literary  club  that  some  of 
the  nicest  girls  in  college  belong  to,"  ex- 
plained Betty  impatiently,  feeling  that  the 
question  was  not  much  to  the  point. 

"  Do  you  belong  to  it  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Blake. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Betty,  with  a  laugh.  "  I'm 
not  bright  enough.  I  hate  to  stick  to  things 
long  enough  to  learn  them." 

"  That's  unfortunate,  because  I  was  hoping 
you  were  a  member,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  inconse- 
quently.  "  But  to  return  to  the  story,  do  you 
think  that  Miss  Watson  was  so  very  much  to 
blame  for  copying  it?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Betty,  indignantly, 
wondering  what  Mr.  Richard  Blake  could 
possibly  be  driving  at  now. 

"  But  consider,"  he  pursued.  "  Miss  Wat- 
eon  is  a  very  clever  girl,  isn't  she  ?  " 


232 

11  Yes,  indeed,"  assented  Betty,  eagerly. 

"  She  finds  this  story — an  unusual  story, 
rather  badly  written,  with  a  very  weak  end- 
ing. It  strikes  her  as  having  possibilities. 
She  puts  on  the  needed  touches, — the  finish, 
the  phrasing  and  an  ending  that  is  almost  a 
stroke  of  genius.  Isn't  the  story  hers?  " 

Betty  waited  a  moment.  "  No,  Mr.  Blake," 
she  said  decidedly,  "  it  isn't.  Those  little 
changes  don't  make  any  difference.  She  took 
it  from  '  The  Quiver.'  " 

"  But  how  about  Shakespeare's  plays  ? 
Every  one  of  them  has  a  borrowed  plot. 
Shakespeare  improved  it,  added  incidents  and 
characters,  fused  the  whole  situation  in  the 
divine  fire  of  his  genius.  But  some  char- 
acters and  the  general  outline  of  the  plot  he 
borrowed.  We  don't  say  he  stole  them.  We 
don't  call  him  a  plagiarist,  Miss  Wales." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Betty, 
doubtfully.  "  I  never  understood  about 
Shakespeare's  plots ;  but  I  suppose  it  was 
different  in  those  days.  Lots  of  things  were. 
And  besides  he  was  a  regular  genius,  and  I 
know  that  what  he  did  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  Eleanor.  She  oughtn't  to  have  copied 


SOPHOMORE  233 

a  story.  I  don't  see  how  she  could  do  it ;  but 
I  wish  you  could  feel  that  it  was  right  to 
overlook  it." 

"  Miss  Wales,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  abruptly, 
"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something.  I  don't 
care  a  snap  of  my  finger  for  Miss  Watson.  I 
don't  really  believe  she's  worth  much  con- 
sideration, though  her  having  a  friend  who 
will  go  around  New  York  for  her  on  a  day 
like  this  seems  to  indicate  the  contrary.  But 
what  I'm  particularly  interested  in  is  the 
moral  tone  of  Harding  College.  That's  a  big 
thing,  a  thing  worth  thought  and  effort  and 
personal  sacrifice  to  maintain.  Now  tell  me 
frankly,  Miss  Wales,  how  would  the  Harding 
girls  as  a  whole  look  at  this  matter? " 

"  If  you  knew  any,"  returned  Betty,  swiftly, 
"you  wouldn't  ask.  Of  course  they'd  feel 
just  the  way  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  even  the  way  I  do?  " 

"Y-yes,"  admitted  Betty,  grudgingly. 
"  But  I  believe  I  could  bring  them  round," 
she  added  with  a  mischievous  smile. 

"  Then  how  did  Miss  Watson  happen  to  do 
such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Because,"  explained  Betty,  earnestly,  "  she 


234        BErrr  WALES 

doesn't  feel  the  way  the  rest  of  the  girls  do 
about  such  things.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  her, 
but  I  noticed  the  difference  almost  the  first 
time  I  met  her.  Last  year  she — oh,  there 
was  nothing  like  this,"  added  Betty,  quickly, 
"  and  after  she  saw  how  the  other  girls  felt, 
she  changed.  But  I  suppose  she  couldn't 
change  all  at  once,  and  so  she  did  this.  But 
she  isn't  a  typical  Harding  girl,  indeed  she 
isn't,  Mr.  Blake." 

"  And  yet  she  is  a  member  of  the  Dramatic 
Club,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  taking  up  a  telegram 
from  his  desk. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  she  wishes  she  wasn't?  " 
inquired  Betty. 

Mr.  Blake  made  no  answer.  "  Well,  Miss 
Wales,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  I  fancy  we've  talked 
as  much  about  this  as  is  profitable.  I'm  very 
glad  to  have  seen  you,  but  I'm  sorry  that  you 
found  us  in  such  disorder.  The  office  boy  is 
stuck  in  the  drifts  over  in  Brooklyn,  and  my 
assistant  and  the  stenographer  are  snowed 
up  in  Harlem.  I  only  hope  you  won't  get 
snowed  in  anywhere  between  here  and  Hard- 
ing. You're  going  back  to-day,  you  said  ?  " 

Betty  nodded.     "  And  I  should  like " 


SOPHOMORE  235 

"  To  be  sure,"  Mr.  Blake  took  her  up.  "  You 
would  like  to  know  my  answer.  Well,  Miss 
Wales,  I  really  think  you  deserve  it,  too ;  but 
as  it  happens,  I  find  I'm  going  up  to  Hard- 
ing next  week,  and  I  want  to  look  over  the 
ground  for  myself, — see  what  I  think  about 
the  moral  tone  of  things,  you  know." 

"  You're  coming  up  to  Harding ! "  said 
Betty,  ruefully.  "  Then  I  needn't  have  come 
down  here  at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  I  didn't  know  it  till  to-day,"  ex* 
plained  Mr.  Blake,  soothingly.  "  I  got  the 
telegram  while  I  was  breakfasting  this  morn- 
ing. I  can't  telegraph  my  answer,  because 
the  wires  are  all  down,  so  you  might  tell  them 
I've  written,  or  you  might  post  my  answer  for 
me  in  Harding.  I  have  the  greatest  confi- 
dence in  your  ability  to  get  through  the  drifts, 
Miss  Wales." 

"  Are  you  " — Betty  hesitated — "  are  you 
coming  up  about  this,  Mr.  Blake  ?  " 

For  answer  he  passed  her  the  telegram.  It 
was  an  invitation  from  the  newly-elected 
president  of  the  Dramatic  Club — Beatrice 
Egerton  had  gone  out  of  office  at  midyears 
—to  lecture  before  an  open  meeting  of  the 


236        BErrr  WALES 

society  a  week  from  the  following  Satur- 
day. 

"  Goodness  !  "  said  Betty,  returning  the  tele- 
gram. "  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  lecturer 
too,  Mr.  Blake." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  much  of  one,"  returned  Mr. 
Blake,  easily.  "  I  suspect  that  the  man  they 
had  engaged  couldn't  come,  and  Miss  Stuart 
— you  know  her,  I  presume — who's  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  suggested  me  as  a  forlorn 
hope.  You  see,"  he  added,  "  *  The  Quiver '  is 
a  new  thing  and  doesn't  go  everywhere  yet, 
as  your  friend  Miss  Watson  was  clever  enough 
to  know ;  but  before  I  began  to  edit  it,  I  used 
to  write  dramatic  criticisms  for  the  news- 
papers. Some  people  didn't  like  my  theories 
about  the  stage  and  the  right  kind  of  plays 
and  the  right  way  of  acting  them ;  so  it  amuses 
them  now  to  hear  me  lecture  and  to  think  to 
themselves  '  How  foolish  ! '  '  How  absurd  1 '  as 
I  talk." 

"  I  see,"  laughed  Betty.  "  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  know  much  about  dramatic  criti- 


cism." 


"  Well,  it  doesn't  amount  to  very  much," 
returned  Mr.  Blake,  genially.     "  That's  why 


SOPHOMORE  237 

I  stopped  doing  it.  Shall  you  come  to  hear 
me  lecture,  Miss  Wales  ?  " 

Betty  laughed  again.  "  I  shall  if  I  can  get 
an  invitation,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  it's  an 
invitation  affair." 

"  And  Miss  Watson  will  be  there? " 

Betty  nodded.  "  Unless,  of  course,  she 
knows  that  you  are  the  editor  of  'The 
Quiver.' " 

"  She  won't,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  unless  you 
or  the  editors  of  the  '  Argus  '  tell  her.  Miss 
Stuart  doesn't  know,  and  she  is  probably  the 
only  other  person  up  there  who's  ever  heard 
of  me.  Good-bye,  Miss  Wales,  until  next 
week,  Saturday." 

Betty  got  her  bag  from  the  elevator  boy, 
into  whose  keeping  she  had  trustfully  con- 
fided it,  and  went  out  into  the  snow.  She 
was  very  much  afraid  that  she  had  not  done 
her  full  duty.  Dorothy  had  told  her  to  be 
sure  to  pin  Mr.  Blake  down  to  something 
definite.  Well,  she  had  tried  to,  but  she  had 
not  succeeded.  As  she  thought  over  the  in- 
terview, she  could  not  remember  that  she  had 
said  anything  very  much  to  the  point.  It 
seemed,  indeed,  as  if  they  had  talked  mostly 


238 

about  other  things ;  and  yet  toward  the  last 
Mr.  Blake's  manner  had  been  much  more  cor- 
dial, if  that  meant  anything.  Anyway  it  was 
all  over  and  done  with  now,  and  quite  useless. 
Dorothy  and  Beatrice  and  Frances  could  do 
their  own  talking  next  week.  And — she  had 
stood  on  the  corner  for  ten  minutes  and  still 
there  was  no  car  in  sight.  A  few  had  crawled 
past  on  their  way  to  the  Battery,  but  none  had 
come  back.  It  was  frightfully  cold.  Betty 
stamped  her  feet,  slapped  her  arms,  warmed 
first  one  aching  ear  and  then  the  other.  Still 
no  car.  A  diminutive  newsboy  had  stopped 
by  her  side,  and  in  despair  she  appealed  to  him. 

"  Isn't  there  some  other  way  to  get  up 
town?"  she  asked.  "These  cars  must  have 
stopped  running,  and  I've  got  to  get  to  the 
Central  station." 

"  Take  de  L  to  de  bridge  and  den  de  Sub- 
way. Dat  ain't  snowed  in,"  suggested  the  lit- 
tle newsboy.  "  C'n  I  carry  your  bag,  lady  ?  " 

It  was  only  a  few  blocks,  but  it  seemed  at 
least  a  mile  to  Betty,  too  cold  and  tired  to  en- 
joy the  tussle  with  the  wind  any  longer. 
When  she  had  stumbled  up  the  long  flight  of 
stairs  and  dropped  herself  and  her  bag  in  the 


SOPHOMORE  239 

nearest  corner  of  the  waiting  train,  she  could 
scarcely  have  taken  another  step. 

The  Central  station,  like  the  whole  city, 
wore  a  dejected,  deserted  appearance.  Yes, 
there  would  be  a  train  for  Harding  some  time, 
a  guard  assured  Betty.  He  could  not  say 
when  it  would  start.  Oh,  it  had  been  due  to 
start  at  ten-thirty,  and  it  was  now  exactly 
twelve-five.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
wait.  So  Betty  waited,  dividing  her  time  be- 
tween "  The  Canterbury  Tales  " — she  had  not 
money  enough  to  dare  to  waste  any  on  a 
magazine — and  a  woman,  who  was  also  wait- 
ing for  the  belated  ten-thirty.  Her  baby  was 
ill,  she  told  Betty ;  she  feared  it  would  die  be- 
fore she  could  get  to  it.  Betty's  own  weari- 
ness and  discouragement  sank  into  insignifi- 
cance beside  her  companion's  trouble,  and  in 
trying  to  reassure  her  she  became  quite  cheer- 
ful herself. 

At  half  past  eleven  that  night  Madeline 
Ayres  heard  something  bang  against  her 
window  and  looked  out  to  find  Betty  Wales 
standing  in  the  drifts,  snowballing  the  front 
windows  of  the  Belden  House  with  an  im- 
partiality born  of  despair. 


240        BErrr  WALES 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  wake  any  one 
up,"  she  said,  when  Madeline  had  unlocked 
the  door  and  let  her  into  the  grateful  warmth 
of  the  hall.  "  The  bell  wouldn't  ring  and  I 
was  so  afraid  out  there,  and  I've  been  ten 
hours  coming  from  New  York,  and  I'm 
starved,  Madeline." 

When,  after  having  enjoyed  a  delicious,  if 
not  particularly  digestible  supper  of  coffee 
and  Welsh  rarebit  in  Madeline's  room,  Betty 
crept  softly  to  her  own,  and  turned  up  the 
gas  just  far  enough  to  undress  by,  Helen  woke 
and  sat  straight  up  in  bed. 

"Why,  Betty!"  she  said,  "I'm  awfully 
glad  you've  come.  We  all  worried  so  about 
you.  But — why,  Betty,  your  hair  isn't  waved 
a  bit.  Didn't  you  have  it  waved  ?  " 

"  Helen,  were  you  ever  in  New  York  in  a 
blizzard?"  inquired  Betty,  busily  unlacing 
her  shoe-strings. 

"  No,"  said  Helen.  "  Did  it  take  out  the 
curl?" 

"  Would  it  take  out  the  curl !  "  repeated 
Betty  scornfully.  "  It  would  take  out  the 
curliest  curl  that  ever  was  in  thirty  seconds. 
It  was  perfectly  awful.  But,  Helen,  don't  say 


SOPHOMORE  241 

anything  about  it,  but  I  didn't  go  to  New 
York  for  that." 

"  Oh  1 "  said  Helen. 

The  next  day  Betty  woke  up  with  a  split- 
ting headache  and  a  sore  throat.  The  day 
after  the  doctor  came  and  called  it  a  mild  case 
of  grippe.  It  was  a  week  before  she  felt  like 
playing  basket-ball,  and  that  very  day  the 
teams  were  chosen  and  Babbie  had  the  position 
as  sub-centre  that  Betty  had  coveted.  One 
thing  she  gained  by  being  ill.  By  the  time 
she  was  able  to  be  up  and  out  even  Mary 
Brooks,  with  her  "  satiable  curiosity,"  had  for- 
gotten to  ask  why  she  went  to  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   DISTINGUISHED   GUEST 

"  IT'S  going  to  be  lots  of  fun.  They  can't 
any  of  them  act  at  all,  of  course,  and  their 
plays  are  the  wildest  things,  Babe  says.  She 
and  Bob  went  once  last  winter.  This  one  is 
called  '  The  Hand  of  Fate  ' — doesn't  that 
sound  thrilling  ?  I  say,  Betty,  I  think  you 
might  be  a  true  sport  and  come  along.  You 
know  you  don't  care  a  straw  about '  The  Tend- 
encies of  the  Modern  Drama.' ' 

Katherine  Kittredge  sat  cross-legged  on 
Betty's  couch,  with  Betty's  entire  collection 
of  pillows  piled  comfortably  behind  her  back, 
while  she  held  forth  with  eloquent  enthusiasm 
upon  the  charms  of  the  "  ten-twenty-thirty  " 
cent  show  which  was  giving  its  final  perfor- 
mance that  evening  at  the  Harding  opera 
house. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  them,  so 
how  can  I  tell  whether  I  care  or  not  ?  "  retorted 
Betty,  who  was  sitting  before  her  desk  en- 

242 


SOPHOMORE  243 

gaged  in  a  desperate  effort  to  bring  some  sem- 
blance of  order  out  of  the  chaos  that  littered 
its  shelf  and  pigeon-holes. 

"  Well,  even  if  you  do  care,  you  can  prob- 
ably read  it  all  up  in  some  book,"  continued 
Katherine.  "  And,  besides,"  she  added  briskly, 
"  you  would  get  a  lot  of  points  to-night.  Isn't 
'  The  Hand  of  Fate  '  a  modern  drama,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?  " 

Betty  gave  a  sudden  joyous  exclamation. 
"  Why,  I'm  finding  all  the  things  I've  lost, 
Katherine.  Here's  my  pearl  pin  that  I 
thought  the  sneak  thieves  must  have  stolen. 
I  remember  now  that  I  put  it  into  an  envelope 
to  take  down  to  be  cleaned.  And," — -joy 
changing  abruptly  to  despair, — "  here's  my 
last  week's  French  exercise,  that  I  hunted  and 
hunted  for,  and  finally  thought  I  must  have 
given  to  some  one  to  hand  in  for  me.  Do  you 
suppose  mademoiselle  will  ever  believe  me  ?  " 

Katherine  chuckled.  "  She  would  if  she 
knew  your  habits  better.  Now  listen,  Betty. 
Nita's  coming  to-night,  and  Babe  and  Babbie 
— Bob  would,  only  she  doesn't  dare  cut  the 
lecture  when  she's  just  gone  into  Dramatic 
Club — and  Rachel  and  Roberta,  and  I've 


244        BErrr  WALES 

about  half  persuaded  Mary  Brooks.  We're 
going  to  sit  in  the  bald-headed  row  and  clap 
all  the  hero's  tenor  solos  and  sob  when  the 
heroine  breaks  his  heart,  and  hiss  the  villain. 
How's  that  for  a  nice  little  stunt?  " 

"  I  just  love  ten-cent  plays,"  admitted 
Betty,  obviously  weakening. 

"  Then  come  on,"  urged  Katherine. 

Betty  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  will  this  time.  You  see  Emily  asked 
me  to  the  lecture,  and  I  accepted." 

"  Well,  so  did  most  of  us  accept,"  argued 
Katherine.  "  You  needn't  think  we  weren't 
asked.  Emily  won't  care.  Just  give  your 
ticket  away,  so  there  won't  be  too  many  vacant 
seats,  and  come  along." 

"  But  you  see,"  explained  Betty,  "  I  really 
do  want  to  hear  the  lecture,  and  I  can  go  off 
on  a  lark  with  you  girls  almost  any  time." 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  be  so  keen  about  a 
lecture  before,"  said  Katherine  indignantly. 
"  I  believe  Helen  Adams  is  turning  you  into 
a  regular  dig." 

"  Don't  worry,"  laughed  Betty.  "  You  see 
one  reason  why  I " 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  without 


SOPHOMORE  245 

waiting  for  an  answer  to  her  knock  Eleanor 
Watson  entered.  She  was  apparently  in  the 
best  of  spirits ;  there  was  no  hint  in  face  or 
manner  of  the  weariness  and  nervous  depres- 
sion that  had  been  so  evident  at  the  time  of 
Jim's  visit. 

"Have  you  both  tickets  for  Mr.  Blake's 
lecture  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  careless  little  nod 
for  Katherine.  "  I  have  one  left  and  Beatrice 
has  one,  and  she  sent  me  out  hunting  for 
victims.  I've  asked  you  once  already,  haven't 
I,  Betty?" 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  said  Betty,  "  but  Emily 
asked  me  before  that." 

"  And  I'm  going  to  '  The  Hand  of  Fate,'  " 
said  Katherine  stiffly,  picking  up  a  book  from 
the  table  and  turning  over  its  pages  with  an 
air  of  studied  indifference.  She  had  no  in- 
tention of  being  patronized  by  Eleanor  Watson. 

"  But  she's  given  away  her  ticket,  Eleanor," 
said  Betty  pacifically,  "  so  you  needn't  worry 
about  empty  seats." 

"  Oh,  we're  not  worrying,"  returned  Eleanor 
loftily.  "  The  subject  is  so  attractive " — 
Katherine  winked  at  Betty  from  behind  the 
shelter  of  her  book.  "  And  then  Miss  Stuart 


246  BETTT   WALES 

knows  Mr.  Blake,  and  she  says  that  he's  a 
splendid  speaker.  Miss  Stuart  is  ill  to-day,  so 
Miss  Ferris  is  going  to  have  Mr.  Blake  up  to 
dinner.  Of  course  we  Hilton  House  girls  are 
dreadfully  excited  about  that." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Betty,  with  a  little  gasp 
of  dismay  which  neither  of  her  friends  seemed 
to  notice. 

"  Miss  Ferris  has  asked  the  Dramatic  Club 
girls  to  sit  at  her  table,"  went  on  Eleanor  im- 
pressively, "  and  she  wants  me  to  be  on  her 
other  side,  right  opposite  Mr.  Blake.  Just 
think  of  that !  " 

"  Splendid ! "  said  Betty,  feeling  like  a 
traitor.  And  yet  what  else  could  she  say,  and 
what  difference  would  it  make,  since  Eleanor 
did  not  know  that  Mr.  Blake  was  the  editor 
of  "  The  Quiver,"  and  Mr.  Blake,  in  the  gen- 
eral confusion  of  introductions,  would  prob- 
ably not  catch  Eleanor's  name. 

"  I  hope  you  know  a  good  deal  more  about 
the  tendencies  of  the  modern  drama  than  I 
do,"  said  Katherine  drily,  "  if  you're  in  as 
deep  as  all  that."  She  slid  off  the  couch  with 
a  jerk.  "  Good-bye,  Betty.  Are  you  sure 
you  won't  change  your  mind  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  247 

"  I  guess  not  this  time,  Katherine,"  said 
Betty,  following  her  guest  to  the  door. 

Eleanor  went  off  too,  after  a  moment,  and 
Betty  was  left  free  to  bestow  her  undivided 
attention  upon  the  rearrangement  of  her  desk. 
But  even  several  "  finds  "  quite  as  important 
and  surprising  as  the  pearl  pin  and  the  French 
theme  did  not  serve  to  concentrate  her 
thoughts  upon  her  own  affairs.  The  absorb- 
ing question  was,  what  did  Mr.  Blake  mean 
to  do,  and  how  would  a  dinner  with  Eleanor 
in  the  seat  opposite  affect  his  intentions  ?  He 
had  said  that  he  wasn't  interested  in  Eleanor, 
but  he  couldn't  help  being  influenced  by  what 
she  said  and  did,  if  he  knew  who  she  was. 
For  the  hundredth  time  Betty  questioned,  did 
Eleanor  deserve  the  consideration  that  was 
being  asked  for  her  ?  Was  it  fair  to  set  aside 
the  gay,  self-absorbed  Eleanor  of  to-day  in 
favor  of  the  clinging,  repentant  Eleanor  of  the 
week  before  ?  Why,  yes,  she  thought,  it  must 
be  fair  to  judge  a  person  at  her  best,  if  you 
wanted  her  to  be  her  best.  She  sighed  over 
the  perplexities  of  life,  and  then  she  sighed 
again,  because  of  her  tiresome  desk  and  the 
Saturday  afternoon  that  was  slipping  away  so 


248        BErrr 

fast.  It  was  half-past  four  already,  and  at  five 
she  had  promised  to  meet  Madeline  Ayres  in 
the  college  library  for  a  walk  before  dinner. 

She  put  the  papers  that  she  had  sorted  into 
their  proper  pigeon-holes,  swept  the  rest  of  the 
litter  into  a  pile  for  future  consideration,  and 
made  a  hasty  toilette,  reflecting  that  she 
should  have  to  dress  again  anyway  for  the  lec- 
ture. As  she  put  on  her  hat,  she  noticed  the 
ruffled  plume  and  smoothed  it  as  best  she 
could.  "  That  blizzard  !  "  she  thought  rue- 
fully. Reminded  again  of  Mr.  Blake,  she 
wondered  if  he  had  taken  an  early  train  from 
New  York.  If  so  he  must  have  reached  Hard- 
ing long  ago.  Perhaps  he  was  closeted  with 
the  editors — Frances  hadn't  heard  from  him 
about  an  interview  when  Betty  saw  her  last. 
Or  perhaps  he  was  investigating  the  moral 
tone  of  the  college.  Betty  wondered  smilingly 
how  he  would  go  about  it,  and  looked  up  to 
find  Mr.  Richard  Blake  himself  strolling 
slowly  toward  her  from  the  direction  of  the 
front  gateway.  At  the  same  instant  he  saw 
her  and  came  quickly  forward,  his  hat  in  one 
hand,  the  other  stretched  out  for  Betty  to 
take. 


SOPHOMORE  249 

"  So  you  didn't  get  stuck  in  the  snow,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

"  Not  so  deep  that  I  had  to  stay  stuck 
for  a  week,"  laughed  Betty.  "  Haven't  the 
office-boy  and  the  stenographer  got  out 
yet?" 

"  Yes,  but  they  didn't  have  so  far  to  go," 
returned  Mr.  Blake,  calmly.  "  May  I  walk 
on  with  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Betty,  "  but  you  weren't 
going  my  way,  were  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Blake  smiled  his  slight,  cynical  smile. 
"  To  tell  the  truth,  Miss  Wales,  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  which  way  I  am  going — or  which 
way  I  ought  to  be.  I'm  supposed  to  turn  up 
for  five  o'clock  tea  with  one  Miss  Raymond, 
who  lives  at  a  place  called  the  Davidson 
House.  My  friend  Miss  Stuart  is  ill,  and  I 
escaped  the  escort  of  a  committee  by  wickedly 
hinting  that  I  knew  my  way  about." 

"  Well,"  said  Betty,  "  you  were  going  the 
right  way  when  I  met  you.  The  Davidson  is 
straight  down  at  the  other  end  of  that  row  of 
brick  houses." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  making  no 
move  to  follow  Betty's  directions.  "  I  detest 


teas,  and  I'm  going  to  be  as  late  as  I  dare. 
But  perhaps  I  shall  be  in  your  way." 

Betty  explained  that  she  was  bound  for  the 
college  library  to  meet  a  friend. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  I  think  I  should 
like  to  see  that  library.  You  know  I  have 
theories  about  libraries  as  well  as  about  plays. 
Is  this  a  nice  one  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Betty.  "  Everything  at 
Harding  is  nice.  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

Mr.  Blake  shook  his  head  uncertainly. 
"  I  hardly  feel  competent  to  speak  of  every- 
thing yet,  Miss  Wales." 

"Well,  how  about  the  moral  tone?"  in- 
quired Betty  demurely.  She  had  a  feeling 
that  more  direct  questions  would  not  help 
Eleanor's  cause. 

Mr.  Blake  shook  his  head  again.  "  I 
haven't  gone  very  far  with  that  yet,  Miss 
Wales.  I  mean  to  make  them  talk  about  it 
at  the  tea." 

They  had  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  library 
and  Betty  pushed  back  the  swinging  doors 
and  stepped  inside,  wondering  vaguely  whether 
she  should  call  the  librarian  or  take  Mr.  Blake 


SOPHOMORE  251 

from  alcove  to  alcove  herself,  when  Madeline 
Ayres  looked  up  from  her  book,  and  catching 
sight  of  them  started  forward  with  a  haste 
and  enthusiasm  which  the  occasion,  Betty 
thought,  hardly  warranted. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  enough  about  the 
books  to  take  you  around,"  she  was  saying  to 
Mr.  Blake,  when  Madeline  descended  precipi- 
tately upon  them  and,  paying  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  Betty,  said  in  a  loud  whisper  to 
Mr.  Blake,  "  Dick,  come  outside  this  minute, 
where  we  can  shake  hands." 

"  Come  on,  Miss  Wales,"  whispered  Mr. 
Blake.  "  It  will  be  worth  seeing,"  and  Betty, 
not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  followed  him 
into  the  hall. 

"  Why,  Dick  Blake,"  Madeline  went  on  en- 
thusiastically, "  you  don't  know  how  good  it 
seems  to  see  one  of  the  old  Paris  crowd  again. 
Have  you  forgotten  how  we  used  to  hunt 
chocolate  shops  together,  and  do  the  Latin 
Quarter  at  night,  and  teach  my  cousins  Amer- 
ican manners?" 

"  Hardly,"  laughed  Mr.  Blake.  "  We  were 
a  pair  of  young  wretches  in  those  days,  Made- 


252        BErrr  WALES 

line.  But  I  thought  you  were  all  for  art  and 
Bohemia.  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  up 
here?" 

"  Completing  my  education,"  returned 
Madeline  calmly.  "  The  family  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  I  was  dreadfully  ignorant.  What 
are  you  doing  up  here  yourself,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Helping  to  complete  your  education,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Blake  serenely.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  the  fame  of  my  to-night's  lecture  hasn't 
reached  you,  Madeline  ?  " 

Madeline  laughed  merrily.  "  To  think  that 
we've  come  to  this,  Dick.  Why,  I  never 
dreamed  that  was  you.  I've  been  refusing 
tickets  to  that  lecture  all  day — I  abhor  lec- 
tures— but  of  course  I  shall  go  now."  She 
turned  to  Betty.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  us 
that  you  knew  Mr.  Blake,  Betty  ?  " 

Betty  blushed  guiltily.  "  Why,  I — because 
I  don't  know  him  much,"  she  stammered. 

"To  be  exact,  Madeline,"  interposed  Mr. 
Blake,  "  this  is  only  our  second  meeting,  and 
of  course  Miss  Wales  didn't  want  to  stand  for 
me  in  the  critical  eyes  of  the  Harding 
public." 

"Well,   but "     Madeline   looked   from 


SOPHOMORE  253 

one  to  ifce  other  sharply.  "  Dick,  whom  are 
you  writing  for  now?  "  she  demanded. 

"  For  myself.     I'm  running  a  magazine." 

"  '  The  Quiver '  ?  " 

Mr.  Blake  nodded.  "  Yes,  have  you  seen 
it?  I've  sent  one  or  two  numbers  to  your 
father  on  the  chance  of  their  finding  him  in 
some  far  corner  of  the  earth." 

"  So  that's  it,"  said  Madeline  enigmatically, 
ignoring  the  question.  "  Now  I  understand. 
I — well,  the  point  is,  Dick,  do  whatever 
Betty  Wales  wants  you  to.  You  may  de- 
pend upon  it  that  she  knows  what  she's 
about.  Everything  she  tells  you  will  be  on 
the  straight." 

Mr.  Richard  Blake  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  a  hearty,  boyish  laugh.  "  You 
haven't  changed  a  bit,  Madeline,"  he  said. 
"  You  expect  me  to  be  your  humble  chessman 
and  no  questions  asked,  exactly  as  you  did  in 
the  old  days.  I  can't  promise  what  you  want 
now,"  he  added  soberly,  "  but  I  heartily  sub- 
scribe to  what  you  say  about  Miss  Wales.  See 
here  " — he  reached  hastily  for  his  watch — "  I 
was  going  to  a  tea,  wasn't  I  ?  Do  I  dare  to  cut 
it  out?' 


254        BErrr  WALES 

Betty  hesitated  and  looked  at  Madeline, 
who  shook  her  head  decidedly.  "  Never. 
This  isn't  Bohemia,  you  know.  Run  along, 
Dick.  I'll  see  you  to-night  if  I  can  get  a 
chance,  and  if  not  you'll  surely  be  round  at 
Easter?" 

"  Rather,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Blake,  strid- 
ing hurriedly  down  the  hall. 

Madeline  watched  him  go  with  a  smile. 
"  Nice  boy,"  she  said  laconically.  "  We  used  to 
have  jolly  times  together,  when  he  was  Paris 
correspondent  for  the  something  or  other  in 
New  York.  Have  we  time  to  take  our  walk, 
Betty?" 

"  Madeline,"  said  Betty  solemnly,  "  you 
are  a  jewel — a  perfect  jewel.  Do  you  think, 
he'll  do  it?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Madeline  coolly.  "  He'll 
keep  you  on  tenter-hooks  as  long  as  he  can, 
but  his  bark  is  always  worse  than  his  bite, 
and  he'll  come  round  in  the  end." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  said  Betty  anxiously. 

Madeline  smiled  lazily  down  at  her. 
"It's  no  good  worrying,  anyhow,"  she  said. 
"  You  can't  pursue  him  to  his  tea.  Besides, 
ten  minutes  before  you  met  him  you'd  almost 


SOPHOMORE  255 

decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  let  the 
whole  thing  out,  and  be  done  with  it." 

"  Madeline,"  demanded  Betty  in  amaze- 
ment, "  how  do  you  guess  things  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  how,"  laughed  Madeline. 
"  Come  and  dress  for  the  lecture." 

Betty  answered  Helen's  eager  questions 
about  the  discovery  of  the  pearl  pin  in  absent- 
minded  monosyllables.  After  all,  things  were 
turning  out  better  than  she  had  hoped.  In- 
directly at  least  the  trip  to  New  York  had 
counted  in  Eleanor's  favor.  She  need  not  re- 
proach herself  any  longer  with  carelessness  in 
letting  Madeline  into  the  secret,  and  she  could 
feel  that  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had 
lost  her  chances  of  being  on  the  "  sub  "  team. 

As  she  entered  the  lecture  hall  that  evening 
with  Helen  and  Alice  Waite,  Dorothy  King, 
who  was  standing  by  the  ticket  taker,  ac- 
costed her. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  Christy  is  com- 
ing back  before  long,"  she  said. 

Having  drawn  her  aside  on  that  flimsy  ex- 
cuse, Dorothy  grew  suddenly  earnest. 

"  What's  he  going  to  do,  Betty  ?  "  she  de- 
manded. 


256        BErrr  WALES 

11  Why,  I  don't  know/'  said  Betty,  blushing 
at  thought  of  Madeline,  "  any  more  than  you 
do.  Haven't  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  explained  Dorothy.  "  He  wrote  to 
say  that  it  would  be  wasting  time  to  argue 
any  more — that  he  was  sure  he  understood 
our  point  of  view  from  you,  and  now  he 
meant  to  see  for  himself  and  decide." 

"  Then  I  suppose  he'll  tell  Miss  West  to- 
night." 

"  We  hoped  he'd  told  you  this  afternoon." 

"How  did  you  know  I'd  seen  him?"  in- 
quired Betty  evasively. 

"  Eleanor  Watson  told  me  that  she  saw  you 
together  in  the  library." 

Betty  gave  a  little  cry  of  dismay,  then 
checked  it.  "  But  she  doesn't  know  who  he 
is,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  she  does  know  now,"  said  Dorothy 
quickly. 

"  How  ?  " 

"  He  told  her  himself.  He  was  at  dinner 
this  evening  with  Miss  Ferris,  you  know. 
Eleanor  sat  up  at  his  end  of  the  table  looking 
like  a  perfect  queen,  and  she  talked  awfully 
well  too — she  is  certainly  a  very  brilliant  girl. 


SOPHOMORE  257 

He  talked  to  her  a  good  deal  during  dinner 
and  as  we  were  leaving  the  table  he  asked 
Miss  Ferris  again  who  she  was." 

"  What  did  he  say  when  she  told  him  ?  " 

"  He  just  said  '  Indeed ! '  in  that  queer, 
drawling  voice  of  his.  Afterward  Miss  Ferris 
made  coffee  for  us,  and  what  do  you  suppose 
he  did  ?  He  began  to  ask  everybody  in  the 
room  about  the  code  of  honor  at  the  college." 

"Well?" 

"  After  one  or  two  of  the  girls  had  said 
what  they  thought,  he  turned  straight  to 
Eleanor  Watson.  '  And  you,  Miss  Watson/ 
he  said,  '  what  do  you  think  ?  Is  this  fine 
moral  feeling  strong  enough  to  stand  a  strain  ? 
Would  you  be  willing  to  risk  one  thoroughly 
dishonest  student  not  to  overthrow  it?* 
She  got  awfully  white,  and  I  could  see  her 
cup  shake  in  her  hand,  but  she  said  very 
quietly,  '  I  quite  agree  with  what  has  already 
been  said,  Mr.  Blake.'  " 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  he  said  '  Indeed  ! '  again.  But  when 
the  girls  got  up  to  go  and  he  bid  them  each 
good-bye,  he  managed  to  keep  Eleanor  on 
some  pretext  about  wanting  to  finish  an  argu- 


258        BErrr  WALES 

ment  that  they'd  begun  at  dinner.  Miss 
Ferris  kept  me  to  know  about  a  Hilton  House 
girl  who  was  down  at  the  infirmary  when  I 
was  and  finally  had  to  be  sent  home ;  and  as 
we  stood  talking  at  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
I  distinctly  heard  Mr.  Blake  say,  '  The  editor 
of  "  The  Quiver,"  Miss  Watson.'  " 

"  Did  Miss  Ferris  hear  it  too  ?  " 

"  Probably  not.  Anyway  it  wouldn't  mean 
anything  to  her.  The  next  minute  Eleanor 
Watson  was  gone,  and  then  I  went  too. 
Betty,  we  must  run  back  this  minute.  He's 
going  to  begin." 

As  far  as  her  information  about  "  The  Tend- 
encies of  the  Modern  Drama  "  was  concerned, 
Betty  Wales  might  quite  as  well  have  been 
enjoying  herself  at  "  The  Hand  of  Fate."  She 
sat  very  still,  between  two  girls  she  had  never 
seen  before,  and  apparently  listened  intently 
to  the  speaker.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  heard 
scarcely  a  word  that  he  said.  Her  thoughts 
and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Eleanor,  who  was 
sitting  with  Beatrice  Egerton,  well  up  on  the 
middle  aisle.  Like  Betty,  she  seemed  to  be 
absorbed  in  following  the  thread  of  Mr. 
Blake's  argument.  She  laughed  at  his  jokes, 


SOPHOMORE  259 

applauded  his  clever  stories.  But  there  was  a 
hot  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  a  queer  light  in 
her  eyes  that  bore  unmistakable  evidence  to 
the  struggle  going  on  beneath  her  forced  at- 
tention. 

After  the  lecture  Betty  was  waiting  near  the 
door  for  Helen  and  Alice,  when  Eleanor 
brushed  past  her. 

"  Are  you  going  home,  Eleanor  ?  "  she  asked 
timidly,  merely  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 
thing friendly. 

Eleanor  turned  back  impatiently.  "  You're 
the  tenth  person  who's  asked  me  that,"  she 
said.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  reason  at  all "  began  Betty. 

But  Eleanor  had  vanished. 

Once  in  her  own  room  she  locked  the  door 
and  gave  free  rein  to  the  fury  of  passion  and 
remorse  that  held  her  in  its  thrall.  Jim's 
visit  had  brought  out  all  her  nobler  impulses. 
She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  as  she 
would  have  looked  in  his  eyes,  and  the  scorn 
of  her  act  that  she  had  felt  at  intervals  all 
through  the  fall  and  winter — that  had  pre- 
vented any  real  enjoyment  of  her  stolen 
honors  and  kept  her  from  writing  home  about 


260  BETTT    WALES 

them, — had  deepened  into  bitter  self-abnega- 
tion. But  Jim  had  come  and  gone.  He  still 
believed  in  her,  for  he  did  not  know  what  she 
had  done.  Nobody  knew.  Nobody  would 
ever  know  now.  It  was  absurd  to  fear  discov- 
ery after  all  these  months.  So  Eleanor  had 
argued,  throwing  care  and  remorse  to  the 
winds,  and  resolving  to  forget  the  past  and 
enjoy  life  to  the  full. 

Then,  just  at  the  moment  of  greatest  tri- 
umph, had  come  Mr.  Blake's  startling  an- 
nouncement. He  had  not  told  her  what  he 
had  done  or  meant  to  do,  nor  how  he  had 
found  out  about  the  story,  nor  who  shared  his 
secret ;  and  Eleanor  had  been  too  amazed  and 
frightened  to  ask.  Now,  in  the  solitude  of 
her  room,  she  drew  her  own  swift  conclusions. 
It  was  a  plot  against  her  peace  of  mind,  his 
coming  up  to  lecture.  Who  had  arranged  it? 
Who  indeed  but  Betty  Wales?  She  knew 
Mr.  Blake  intimately,  it  seemed,  and  she  had 
such  horribly  strict  ideas  of  honesty.  She 
would  never  forgive  her  own  sister  for  cheat- 
ing. "  She  must  have  seen  '  The  Quiver '  on 
my  table,"  thought  Eleanor,  "  and  then  to  use 
it  against  me  like  this  I "  No  doubt  she  or  Mr. 


SOPHOMORE  261 

Blake  had  told  that  hateful  Madeline  Ayres, 
who  knew  him  too.  No  doubt  all  the  editors 
had  been  told.  It  was  to  be  hoped  that  Doro- 
thy King,  with  her  superior  airs,  realized  that 
it  was  mostly  her  fault.  A  dull  flush  spread 
over  Eleanor's  pale  face,  as  it  suddenly  flashed 
upon  her  that  Beatrice  Egerton  was  an  editor. 

Well,  if  Beatrice  was  in  the  secret,  there 
was  no  telling  how  many  she  had  confided 
in.  Eleanor's  devotion  to  Miss  Egerton  had 
been  utterly  without  sentiment  from  the  first. 
She  realized  perfectly  that  Beatrice  was  flip- 
pant and  unprincipled,  swayed  only  by  selfish 
considerations  and  by  a  passion  for  making  a 
sensation.  If  she  did  not  mind  being  associ- 
ated with  the  story,  she  would  tell  it;  only 
regard  for  her  own  reputation  as  Eleanor's 
"  backer  "  might  deter  her. 

Swiftly  Eleanor  laid  her  plan.  After  all, 
what  did  it  matter  who  knew?  Mr.  Blake, 
Betty  and  Dorothy,  Beatrice — the  whole  col- 
lege— what  could  they  prove  ?  Nothing — ab- 
solutely nothing,  unless  she  betrayed  herself. 
No  doubt  they  thought  they  had  brought  her 
to  bay,  and  expected  her  to  make  some  sort 
of  confession.  They  would  find  there  was  no 


262        BErrr  WALES 

getting  around  her  that  way.  There  was  no 
danger  of  discovery,  so  long  as  she  kept  her 
head,  and  she  would  never  show  the  white 
feather.  She  would  write  another  story — she 
could  do  it  and  she  would,  too,  that  very 
night.  But  first  she  would  go  back  to  the 
Students'  Building.  The  Dramatic  Club  was 
giving  a  reception  to  Mr.  Blake  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  faculty.  She  had  been  unpardon- 
ably  stupid  to  think  of  missing  it. 

As  she  crossed  the  shadowed  space  in  front 
of  the  big  building,  she  caught  sight  of  three 
dimly  outlined  figures  clustered  about  one  of 
the  pillars  of  the  portico,  and  heard  Frances 
West's  voice,  so  sweet  and  penetrating  as  to 
be  quite  unmistakable. 

"  Yes,  he  leaves  it  entirely  to  us,"  she  was 
saying.  "  He  said  he  thought  we  could  be 
trusted  to  know  what  was  best." 

"  I  wish  he  hadn't  made  the  condition  that 
no  one  should  say  anything  to  her,"  objected 
a  second  speaker.  "  It  doesn't  seem  to  me 
quite  wise  to  let  things  just  drift  along  the 


same  as  ever." 


"  Nonsense,"  broke  in  a  third  voice,  sharp 
with  irritation.    "  You  know  perfectly  well  — " 


SOPHOMORE  263 

Eleanor  had  walked  as  slowly  as  she  dared. 
Now  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the 
door  without  waiting  to  find  out  the  identity 
of  the  last  two  speakers,  or  risk  being  caught 
eaves-dropping. 

She  hurried  on  up  the  stairs  to  the  society 
rooms  on  the  second  floor,  and  devoted  her- 
self for  the  rest  of  the  evening  to  the  dullest 
and  most  unpopular  members  of  the  faculty 
with  an  ardor  that  won  her  the  heart-felt 
gratitude  of  the  president  of  the  club. 

"  I  can  be  agreeable,"  she  thought,  as  she 
sat  down  at  her  desk  an  hour  later.  "  I  can 
do  whatever  I  make  up  my  mind  to.  I'll 
show  them  that  I'm  not  going  to  '  drift 
along ! ' " 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  when, 
stiff  and  heavy-eyed,  she  turned  off  her  light 
and  crept  into  bed. 

"  I've  driven  a  coach  and  four  through 
their  precious  ten  o'clock  rule,"  she  thought, 
"  but  I  don't  care.  I've  finished  the  story." 

The  story  was  a  little  sketch  of  western  life, 
with  characters  and  incidents  drawn  from  an 
experience  of  Jim's.  Eleanor  was  an  excel- 
lent critic  of  her  own  work,  and  she  knew 


264 

that  this  was  good ;  not  so  unusual,  perhaps, 
as  the  other  one  had  been,  but  vivid,  swing' 
ing,  full  of  life  and  color,  far  above  the  aver- 
age of  student  work.  It  should  go  to  Miss 
Raymond  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
She  would  like  it,  and  the  "  Argus  "  perhaps 

would  want  it Eleanor  closed  her  tired 

eyes,  and  in  a  moment  was  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DISAPPOINTMENTS 

IT  was  the  day  of  the  great  basket-ball 
game.  In  half  an  hour  more  the  gymnasium 
would  be  opened  to  the  crowd  that  waited  in 
two  long,  sinuous  lines,  gay  with  scarfs, 
banners  and  class  emblems,  outside  the  doors. 
Now  and  then  a  pretty  girl,  dressed  all  in 
white,  with  a  paper  hat,  green  or  yellow  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  an  usher's  wand  to  match, 
darted  out  of  one  of  the  campus  houses  and 
fluttered  over  to  the  back  door  of  the  gymna- 
sium. The  crowd  watched  these  triumphal 
progresses  languidly.  Its  interest  was  reserved 
for  the  other  girls,  pig  tailed  and  in  limp- 
hanging  rain-coats,  who  also  sought  the  back 
door,  but  with  that  absence  of  ostentation  and 
self-consciousness  which  invariably  marks  the 
truly  great.  The  crowd  singled  out  its 
"  heroes  in  homespun,"  and  one  line  or  the 
other  applauded,  according  to  the  color  that 

265 


266        BErrr  WALES 

was  known  to  be  sewed  on  the  blue  sleeve  be- 
neath  the  rain-coat. 

The  green  line  was  just  shouting  itself 
hoarse  over  T.  Reed,  who  had  been  observed 
slinking  across  the  apple  orchard,  hoping  to 
effect  her  entrance  unnoticed,  when  Eleanor 
Watson  hurried  down  the  steps  of  the  Hilton 
House,  carrying  a  sheet  of  paper  in  one  hand. 
Hearing  the  shouting,  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders  disdainfully  and  chose  the  route 
to  the  Westcott  House  that  did  not  lead  past 
the  gymnasium  doors.  As  she  went  up 
the  steps  of  the  Westcott,  she  met  Jean  East- 
man coming  down,  her  white  skirts  rustling 
in  the  wind. 

Jean  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  Why, 
Eleanor,  you're  an  usher  too.  Aren't  you 
going  to  dress?  It's  half  past  two  this 
minute." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor  curtly,  "  I  know. 
I'm  not  going  to  usher.  I  have  a  headache. 
Jean,  where  is  my  basket-ball  song  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  Jean,  smooth- 
ing the  petals  of  the  green  chrysanthemums 
that  were  festooned  about  her  wand.  "  On 
the  paper  with  the  rest,  isn't  it  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  267 

"  No,"  said  Eleanor,  "  it's  not.  I  didn't  go 
to  the  class  '  sing '  last  night,  but  this  noon 
somebody  left  a  song  sheet  in  my  room. 
You  said  they  chose  mine,  Jean." 

"  I  said,"  corrected  Jean,  "  that  I  thought 
they  chose  it.  I  was  on  the  song  committee, 
but  I  didn't  go  to  the  meeting.  From  your 
description  I  thought  it  must  be  one  of  those 
that  Kate  said  was  taken." 

Eleanor  held  out  the  paper  to  Jean. 
"Whose  are  these?" 

Jean  glanced  hastily  down  the  page. 
"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  any  more 
than  you  do — except  that  first  one  to  the  tune 
of  '  St.  Louis.' '  She  hummed  a  lilting 
measure  or  two.  "  That's  our  prize  song  all 
right,  and  who  do  you  think  wrote  it?  " 

"  Who?"  demanded  Eleanor  fiercely. 

"  That  little  Adams  girl — the  one  who 
rooms  with  Betty  Wales.  T.  Reed  told  me 
she'd  been  working  on  it  for  weeks." 

Eleanor's  eyes  flashed  scornfully.  "  I 
should  think  it  ought  to  be  fairly  decent 
then,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  it's  considerably  more  than  fairly 
decent,"  said  Jean  cheerfully.  "  I'm  freezing 


268 

here,  Eleanor,  and  it's  late  too.  Don't  bother 
about  your  song.  Come  over  to  the  gym. 
with  me  and  you  can  go  in  the  back  way." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Eleanor  in  frigid 
tones,  and  went  back  as  she  had  come. 

To  be  beaten,  and  by  Helen  Chase  Adams, 
of  all  people  !  It  was  too  humiliating.  Six 
basket-ball  songs  had  been  printed  and  hers 
rejected.  No  doubt  the  other  five  had  been 
written  by  special  friends  of  the  committee. 
She  had  depended  on  Jean  to  look  after  hers 
— although  she  had  not  doubted  for  a  moment 
that  it  would  be  among  the  very  best  sub- 
mitted— and  Jean  had  failed  her. 

Worse  yet,  the  story  on  which  she  had 
staked  her  hopes  had  come  back  from  Miss 
Raymond,  with  a  few  words  of  perfunctory, 
non-committal  criticism.  Miss  Raymond  had 
not  read  it  to  her  class,  much  less  sent  the 
"  Argus  "  editors  after  it. 

"  Does  she  know,  too  ?  "  questioned  Eleanor. 
"  Does  she  think  that  because  I've  cheated 
once  I  can't  ever  be  trusted  again,  or  is  it  just 
my  luck  to  have  them  all  notice  the  one 
thing  I  didn't  write  and  let  alone  the  things 
Ido?" 


SOPHOMORE  269 

It  was  two  weeks  since  Mr.  Blake's  lecture, 
and  in  that  time  she  had  accomplished  noth- 
ing of  all  that  she  had  intended.  Her  idea 
had  been  to  begin  over — to  blot  out  the  fact 
that  once  she  had  not  played  fair,  and  start- 
ing on  a  clean  sheet,  repeat  her  triumph  and 
prove  to  herself  and  other  people  that  her  po- 
sition in  college  affairs  was  no  higher  than  she 
deserved.  But  so  far  she  had  proved  noth- 
ing, and  every  day  the  difficulties  of  her  posi- 
tion increased.  It  was  almost  more  than  she 
could  manage,  to  treat  the  girls  whom  she 
suspected  of  knowing  her  secret  with  exactly 
her  accustomed  manner.  She  had  not  been 
able  to  verify  her  suspicions  except  in  the  case 
of  Beatrice  Egerton.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  her.  When  the  two  were  alone  together 
she  scarcely  took  pains  to  conceal  her  knowl- 
edge, and  her  covert  hints  had  driven  Eleanor 
into  more  than  one  outburst  of  resentment 
which  she  bitterly  regretted  when  it  was  too 
late.  It  was  absolutely  impossible  to  tell 
about  Betty.  "  She  treats  me  exactly  as  she 
did  when  Jim  was  here,"  reflected  Eleanor, 
"  and  just  as  she  did  last  year,  for  that  matter. 
If  she  doesn't  know  it's  no  particular  credit  to 


270 

her,  and  if  she  does "  Eleanor  could  not 

bear  the  idea  of  receiving  kindness  from  peo- 
ple who  must  despise  her. 

Jean  ran  on  to  the  gym.,  shivering  in  her 
thin  dress,  and  muttering  savagely  over  Elea- 
nor's "  beastly  temper." 

As  she  passed  the  sophomore-senior  line, 
one  and  another  of  her  friends  shouted  out 
gay  greetings. 

"  Hurry  up,  Jean,  or  we  shall  get  in  before 
you  do." 

"  You  sophomore  ushers  look  like  a  St. 
Patrick's  Day  parade." 

"  Tell  the  people  in  there  that  their  clocks 
are  slow." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jean,  hanging  on  to  her 
unmanageable  paper  hat. 

As  she  passed  the  end  of  the  line,  Beatrice 
Egerton  detached  herself  from  it,  and  followed 
her  around  the  corner  of  the  gym.  "  Oh, 
Miss  Eastman,"  she  coaxed.  "  Won't  you  let 
me  go  in  with  you  ?  I  shall  never  get  a  place 
to  see  anything  from  way  back  there  in  the 
line." 

Jean  eyed  her  doubtfully.  She  wanted  to 
oblige  the  great  Miss  Egerton.  "  I'm  afraid 


SOPHOMORE  271 

all  the  reserved  seats  are  full  by  this  time," 
she  objected. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  a  seat,"  said  Beatrice 
easily.  "I'll  stand  on  the  steps  of  the  faculty 
platform.  There's  no  harm  in  that,  is  there  ?  " 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Jean.     "  Come  on." 

The  doorkeeper  had  gone  up-stairs  for  a 
moment,  and  the  meek  little  freshman  who 
had  her  place  only  stared  when  Jean  and  Miss 
Egerton  ran  past  her  without  exhibiting  their 
credentials. 

"  Thanks  awfully,"  said  Miss  Egerton,  sit- 
ting down  on  a  pile  of  rugs  and  mattresses 
that  had  been  stacked  around  the  fireplace. 
Jean  went  off  to  get  her  orders  from  the  head 
usher.  There  was  really  nothing  to  do  but 
walk  around  and  look  pretty,  the  head  usher 
told  her.  The  rush  to  the  gallery  had  begun, 
but  the  janitors  and  the  night-watchman  were 
managing  that.  Of  course  when  the  faculty 
began  to  come 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jean,  and  hurried  back  to 
Beatrice. 

"  Good-looking  lot  of  ushers,"  she  said. 

Beatrice  nodded.  "  You  have  a  lot  of  pretty 
girls  in  19—." 


272        BErrr 

"  To  say  nothing  of  having  the  college 
beauty,"  added  Jean. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Beatrice.  "  Nobody  in 
college  can  touch  Eleanor  Watson  for  looks. 
There  she  is  now,  talking  to  Betty  Wales  and 
Kate  Denise." 

"  No,"  chuckled  Jean,  "  that's  Laura  Per- 
kins. Their  back  views  are  amazingly  alike, 
but  wait  till  you  see  Laura's  face.  No,  the 
lady  Eleanor  wouldn't  come  to  the  game. 
She's  in  the  sulks." 

"  Seems  to  be  her  chronic  state  nowadays," 
said  Beatrice.  "  Talking  to  her  is  like  walk- 
ing on  a  hornet's  nest.  What's  the  particular 
cause  of  grievance  to-day  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  committee  didn't  accept  her 
basket-ball  song,"  said  Jean,  "  and  I  was  on 
the  committee." 

Beatrice  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "  She  actu- 
ally had  the  nerve  to  write — to  hand  one  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  wasn't  nervy,"  said  Jean.  "  The 
girls  wanted  her  to — 19 —  is  awfully  shy  on 
poets.  What  I  don't  admire  is  her  taste  in 
fussing  because  it  wasn't  used." 

Beatrice  smiled  significantly.  "  Did  she 
tell  you  about  her  story  ?  " 


SOPHOMORE  273 

"What  story?" 

"  Oh,  a  new  one  that  she  handed  in  for  a 
theme  a  week  or  so  ago." 

"What  about  it?" 

"  Why,  Miss  Raymond  didn't  notice  it 
particularly,  and  Eleanor  was  fussed  to  death 
— positively  furious,  you  know.  I  was  with 
her  when  she  got  it  back." 

"  How  funny  !  "  said  Jean.  "  But  don't 
they  say  that  Miss  Raymond  is  pretty  apt  to 
like  everything  a  girl  does,  after  she's  once 
become  interested?  I  suppose  Eleanor  was 
taking  it  easy  and  depending  on  that." 

Beatrice's  face  wore  its  most  inscrutable  ex- 
pression. "  But,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  you 
knew  all  about  that  other  wonderful  story — 
the  famous  one " 

There  was  an  unusual  commotion  at  the 
door  opposite  them.  By  flower-bedecked  ones 
and  twos  the  faculty  had  been  arriving,  and 
had  been  received  with  shouts  and  songs  from 
the  galleries  and  escorted  by  excited  ushers 
across  the  floor  to  their  seats  on  the  stage. 
Miss  Egerton  had  stopped  in  the  midst  of  her 
sentence  to  find  out  whose  coming  had  turned 
the  galleries  into  pandemonium  and  brought 


274        BErrr  WALES 

every  usher  but  the  phlegmatic  Jean  to  the 
door. 

"Oh,  it's  Prexy  and  Miss  Ferris  and  Dr. 
Hinsdale,  all  in  a  bunch,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  How  inconsiderate  of  them  not  to  scatter 
the  fireworks !  "  She  turned  back  to  Jean. 
"  As  I  was  saying,  if  you  knew  all  about  that 
wonderful  story " 

Betty  Wales,  hurrying  to  help  escort  her 
dear  Miss  Ferris  to  the  platform,  caught  sight 
of  the  two  on  the  mattresses,  noticed  Jean's 
look  of  breathless  interest  and  Beatrice's 
knowing  air,  and  jumped  to  exactly  the  right 
conclusion.  With  a  last  despairing  glance  at 
Miss  Ferris  she  turned  aside  from  the  group  of 
crowding  ushers,  and  dropped  down  beside 
Jean  on  the  mattings. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  latest  news  ?  "  she 
asked,  trying  to  make  her  tone  perfectly  easy 
and  natural.  "  The  freshman  captain  was  so 
rattled  that  she  forgot  to  wear  her  gym.  suit. 
She  came  in  her  ordinary  clothes.  They've 
sent  an  usher  back  with  her  to  see  that  she 
gets  dressed  right  this  time.  Isn't  that  kill- 
ing?" 

"  Absurd,"   said    Beatrice,    rising.     "  Jean, 


SOPHOMORE  275 

you  haven't  done  anything  yet;  you're  too 
idle  for  words.  I'm  going  up  to  jolly  Dr. 
Hinsdale." 

In  her  heart  she  was  glad  of  the  interrup- 
tion. She  had  said  just  enough  to  pique 
curiosity.  To  tell  more  would  have  been  bad 
policy  all  around.  Betty  Wales  had  arrived 
just  in  the  nick  of  time. 

But  Jean  was  naturally  disappointed. 
"  Betty  Wales,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  what 
you  interrupted  just  now?  Beatrice  Egerton 
was  just  going  to  tell  me  the  inside  facts  about 
Eleanor's  story  in  the  '  Argus.' ' 

"  Was  she  ? "  said  Betty  steadily.  "  If 
there  are  any  inside  facts,  as  you  call  them, 
don't  you  think  Eleanor  is  the  one  to  tell 
you?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Jean  carelessly. 
"  Eleanor's  so  tiresome.  She  wants  to  be  the 
centre  of  the  stage  all  the  time.  Shouldn't 
you  think  she'd  be  willing  to  give  other 
people  a  little  show  now? " 

"  Why,   she   is,"   returned   Betty   vaguely. 

"  Not  much,"  asserted  Jean  with  great  posi- 
tiveness.  "  She's  sulking  in  her  tent  this  very 
minute  because  the  girls  aren't  singing  her 


276        BErrr  WALES 

basket-ball  song.  Anybody  who  wasn't  down- 
right selfish  would  be  glad  to  have  girls  like 
Helen  Adams  get  a  little  chance." 

"  Eleanor's  tired  and  doesn't  think,"  sug- 
gested Betty. 

"  You'd  better  go  down  to  the  door,"  said 
the  head  usher.  "  The  '  green '  faculty  are 
coming  in  swarms." 

The  game  went  on  much  as  last  year's  had 
done.  First  one  gallery  shook  with  forbidden 
applause,  then  the  other.  Sophomores  sang 
pseans  to  their  victories,  freshmen  pluckily 
ignored  their  mistakes.  T.  Reed  appeared  as 
if  by  magic  here,  there,  and  everywhere. 
Rachel  Morrison  played  her  quiet,  steady 
game  at  the  sophomore  basket.  Katherine 
Kittredge,  talking  incessantly  to  the  bewil- 
dered freshman  "  home  "  whom  she  guarded, 
batted  balls  with  ferocious  lunges  of  her  big 
fist  back  to  the  centre  field,  where  a  dainty 
little  freshman  with  soft,  appealing  brown 
eyes,  half  hidden  under  a  mist  of  yellow  hair, 
occasionally  managed  to  foil  T.  Reed's  pur- 
suit and  sent  them  pounding  back  into  the 
outstretched  arms  of  a  tall,  ungainly  home 
who  tossed  or  dropped  them — it  was  hard  to 


SOPHOMORE  277 

tell  which — into  the  freshman  basket.  It  was 
a  shame  to  let  her  play,  the  sophomores 
grumbled.  She  was  a  giantess,  not  a  girl. 
But  as  the  score  piled  up  in  their  favor,  they 
grew  more  amiable  and  laughed  good-humor- 
edly  at  the  ineffectual  attempts  of  their  guards 
to  block  the  giantess's  goals. 

Betty  watched  it  all  with  keen  interest  and 
yet  with  a  certain  feeling  of  detachment.  It 
was  splendid  fun,  but  what  did  it  matter  after 
all  who  won  or  lost?  The  freshman  centres 
muffed  another  ball.  Up  in  the  "  yellow " 
gallery  she  saw  a  tall  girl  standing  behind  a 
pillar  unmistakably  wink  back  the  tears. 
How  foolish,  just  for  a  game ! 

It  was  over  at  last.  Miss  Andrews  an- 
nounced the  score,  congratulating  victor  and 
vanquished  alike  on  clean,  fair  play.  Betty 
joined  in  the  mad  rush  around  the  gym., 
helped  sing  to  the  team  and  to  the  freshman 
team  and  finally  retired  to  a  quiet  corner 
with  Christy  Mason,  who  had  come  back  to 
see  the  game  and  get  a  start  with  her  neglected 
work  before  vacation.  Betty  gave  her  the 
Students'  Commission  key  with  a  little  sigh 
of  satisfaction. 


278  BErTT    WALES 

11  It's  a  good  deal  of  responsibility,  isn't 
it?"  she  said. 

Christy  nodded.  "  If  you  take  it  seriously. 
But  then  isn't  life  a  responsibility?" 

Helen  was  sitting  alone  in  their  room  when 
Betty  got  back,  her  eyes  shining  like  stars, 
her  plain,  angular  little  face  alight  with  hap- 
piness. 

"  I  say,  Helen,"  began  Betty,  hunting  for 
the  hat-pins  that  still  fastened  a  remnant  of 
her  once  gorgeous  paper  hat  to  her  hair,  "your 
song  was  great.  Did  the  girls  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them,"  said  Helen,  shyly.  "  Some 
of  them  didn't  know  I  wrote  it.  One  asked 
me  if  I  knew." 

Betty  laughed.     "  Did  you  tell  her  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Helen,  blushing.  "  I— 
I  wanted  to,  awfully  ;  but  I  thought  it  would 
seem  queer." 

"  Well,  plenty  of  them  knew,"  said  Betty, 
mounting  a  chair  to  fasten  her  wand  over  a 
picture. 

"  Of  course," — Helen's  tone  was  apologetic, 
— it's  a  very  little  thing  to  care  so  much  about. 
I  suppose  you  think  I'm  silly,  but  you  see  I 
worked  over  it  pretty  hard,  and  I  don't  have 


SOPHOMORE  279 

so  very  many  things  to  care  about.  Now  if  I 
were  like  you " 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Betty,  descending  sud- 
denly from  her  lofty  perch.  "  I  couldn't  write 
a  line  of  poetry  if  I  tried  from  now  till  Com- 
mencement." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  could,"  said  Helen,  eagerly. 
"  Well,  if  I  were  like  Eleanor  Watson 
then " 

"  Helen,"  said  Betty,  quickly,  "  you're  not 
one  bit  like  her.'r 

Helen  waited  a  minute.  "  Betty,"  she  be- 
gan again  shyly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty,  kindly. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  you  couldn't  have  your 
wish,  too." 

"  My  wish  !  "  Betty  repeated.  "  Oh,  you 
mean  about  being  on  the  team.  I  don't  mind 
about  that,  Helen.  I  guess  I  was  needed  more 
just  where  I  was." 

Helen  puzzled  over  her  answer  until  the 
supper-bell  rang. 

Betty's  problem  stayed  with  her  all  through 
the  bustle  of  last  days  and  on  into  the  Easter 
vacation.  Even  then  she  found  only  a 


280  BETTT   WALES 

doubtful  solution.  She  had  thought  that  Mr. 
Blake's  decision,  of  which  Dorothy  had  told 
her  as  soon  as  possible,  would  close  the  inci- 
dent of  the  story.  Now  she  saw  that  the  af- 
fair was  not  so  easily  disposed  of.  Beatrice 
Egerton  was  an  incalculable  source  of  danger, 
but  the  chief  trouble  was  Eleanor  herself. 
Somehow  her  attitude  was  wrong,  though 
Betty  could  not  exactly  tell  how.  She  was  in 
a  false  position,  one  that  it  would  be  difficult 
for  any  one  to  maintain ;  and  it  was  making 
her  say  and  do  things  that  people  like  Jean, 
who  did  not  understand,  naturally  misinter- 
preted. Why,  even  she  herself  hated  to  meet 
Eleanor  now.  There  was  so  much  to  hide  and 
to  avoid  talking  about.  And  yet  it  would 
certainly  be  worse  if  everybody  knew.  Betty 
puckered  her  smooth  forehead  into  rows  and 
rows  of  wrinkles  and  still  she  saw  no  way  out. 
She  thought  of  consulting  Nan,  but  she 
couldn't  bear  to,  when  Nan  had  always  been 
so  pessimistic  about  Eleanor. 

It  was  not  until  the  vacation  was  over  and 
Betty's  train  was  pulling  into  Harding  that 
she  had  an  idea.  She  gave  a  little  exclama- 
tion. "  I've  got  it  I " 


SOPHOMORE  281 

41  Got  what  ?  "  demanded  her  seat-mate,  who 
was  a  mathematical  prodigy  and  had  been 
working  out  problems  in  calculus  all  the  way 
from  Buffalo. 

"  Not  one  of  those  examples  of  yours," 
laughed  Betty,  "  only  an  idea, — or  at  least 
about  half  an  idea." 

"  I  don't  find  fractions  of  ideas  very  useful," 
said  the  seat-mate. 

"  I  never  said  they  were,"  returned  Betty 
irritably. 

It  had  occurred  to  her  that  if  there  was  any 
way  to  get  Eleanor  to  confide  in  Miss  Ferris, 
perhaps  matters  might  be  straightened  out. 

The  missing  half  of  the  idea,  to  which  Betty 
had  not  the  faintest  clew,  was — how  could  it 
be  done  ? 


CHAPTER  XVI 
DORA  CARLSON'S  "  SUGARING-OFF  " 

DORA  CARLSON  pulled  back  the  heavy  oak 
door  of  the  Hilton  House  and  stepped  softly 
into  the  hall.  With  bright,  darting  glances, 
such  as  some  frightened  wild  creature  might 
bestow  on  an  unfamiliar  environment,  she 
crept  past  the  parlor  doors  and  up  the  stairs. 
Dora  was  not  naturally  timid,  and  her  life  on 
a  lonely  farm  had  made  her  self-reliant  to  a 
degree ;  but  there  was  something  about  these 
big  campus  houses  that  awed  her — mysterious 
suggestions  of  a  luxurious  and  alien  existence, 
of  delightful  festivities  and  dainty  belongings, 
that  stimulated  her  imagination  and  made  her 
feel  like  a  lawless  intruder  if  she  met  any  one 
in  the  passages. 

Of  course  it  was  foolish.  Nettie  Dwight, 
who  lived  next  door  to  her  on  Market  Street, 
had  not  a  single  friend  on  the  campus,  and 
yet  she  had  been  into  every  one  of  the  dwell- 
ing houses  and  explored  them  all  from  top  to 


SOPHOMORE  283 

bottom.  Where  was  the  harm,  she  asked. 
All  you  had  to  do  was  to  step  up  and  open  the 
door,  and  then  walk  along  as  if  you  knew 
where  you  were  going.  When  you  had  seen 
as  much  as  you  wanted  to,  you  could  stop  in 
front  of  some  room  of  which  the  door  stood 
open  so  that  you  could  tell  from  the  hall  that 
it  was  empty,  and  turn  around  and  go  away 
again.  Everybody  would  think  that  the  per- 
son you  had  come  to  see  was  out.  It  sounded 
perfectly  simple,  but  Dora  had  never  been 
anywhere  except  to  Eleanor's  room  at  the 
Hilton  House  and  once,  at  Betty  Wales's  invi- 
tation, to  the  Belden. 

She  hated  to  hurry  through  the  halls.  She 
would  have  liked  to  turn  aside  and  smell  the 
hyacinths  that  stood  in  the  sunny  bay-window 
of  the  long  parlor ;  she  wanted  desperately  to 
read  through  all  the  notices  on  the  house 
bulletin-board  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs ;  but 
instead  she  fled  up  the  two  flights  and  through 
the  corridor,  like  a  criminal  seeking  sanctuary, 
and  arrived  at  Eleanor's  room  in  a  flurry  of 
breathless  eagerness.  The  door  was  open  and 
Eleanor  sat  by  the  window,  staring  listlessly 
out  at  the  quiet,  greening  lawns.  The  light 


284        BErrr  WALES 

was  full  on  her  face  and  Dora,  who  had  had 
only  a  passing  glimpse  of  her  divinity  since 
before  the  spring  vacation,  noticed  sadly  how 
pale  and  tired  she  looked. 

"  May  I  come  in,  Miss  Watson  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Of  course,  but  you  mustn't  call  me  that," 
said  Eleanor,  turning  to  her  with  a  charming 
smile.  Beatrice  Egerton  had  said  that  she 
should  be  over  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
and  Eleanor  had  been  dreading  her  coming. 
The  necessity  of  keeping  up  appearances  with 
Beatrice  and  the  rest  was  wearing  Eleanor  out. 
It  was  a  distinct  relief  to  talk  to  Dora,  with 
whom  no  artifices  were  necessary.  Whoever 
else  knew  her  secret,  Dora  certainly  did  not ; 
she  was  as  remote  from  the  stream  of  college 
gossip  as  if  she  had  lived  in  another  world. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  that  you're  resting," 
said  Dora  brightly.  <;  I  take  it  as  an  omen 
that  perhaps  you'll  be  able  to  do  what  I 
want." 

"  I  hope  I  can,"  said  Eleanor.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  Why,  I'm  going  to  have  a  sugaring-off  to- 
night," announced  Dora  impressively,  "  and 
I  should  be  very  pleased  to  have  you  come." 


SOPHOMORE  285 

For  a  moment  Eleanor  hesitated,  then  her 
better  nature  triumphed.  This  was  the  first 
thing  the  child  had  ever  asked  of  her,  and  she 
should  have  it,  even  at  the  cost  of  some  tri- 
fling annoyance. 

"  How  nice,"  she  said  cordially.  "  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  come.  Just  what  is  a  sugar- 
ing-off,  Dora  ?  " 

Dora  laughed  gleefully.  "  It's  amazing  to 
me  how  few  people  know  what  it  is.  I'm  not 
going  to  tell  you  the  particulars,  but  I  will 
excite  your  interest  by  saying  that  it  has  to  do 
with  maple  sugar." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  think  of  having 
one?"  inquired  Eleanor  curiously. 

"  Why,  you  see,"  explained  Dora,  "  we  have 
a  sugar  orchard  on  our  farm.  Ohio  is  a  great 
maple-sugar  state,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Eleanor.     "  No,  I  didn't  know." 

"  Sugaring  time  used  to  be  the  delight  of 
my  childish  heart,"  went  on  Dora  quaintly, 
"  So  many  people  came  out  to  our  farm  then. 
It  was  quite  like  living  in  the  village  and 
having  neighbors.  And  then  I  do  love 
maple  sugar.  My  father  makes  an  excellent 
quality." 


286         BErrr 

"  And  he's  sent  you  some  now  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  assented  Dora  eagerly,  "  a  whole  big 
pailful.  I  suppose  my  dear  father  thought  it 
would  console  me  for  not  having  been  home 
for  my  spring  vacation.  It  came  this  morn- 
ing, and  yesterday  Mrs.  Bryant  went  to  pass  a 
week  with  her  son  in  Jersey  City,  and  she  told 
me  I  could  use  the  kitchen  for  a  sugar-party 
if  I  wanted  to  while  she  was  gone — I  told  her 
that  I  was  expecting  to  have  a  party — and  this 
is  the  only  night  for  a  week  that  Nettie 
Dwight  can  come,  because  she  teaches  in  a 
night-school."  Dora  paused  for  breath. 
"Who  is  Nettie  Dwight ?"  asked  Eleanor 

idly. 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  Market  Street  girl.  There 
will  be  three  Market  Street  girls  and  you  and 
Miss  Wales,  if  she  can  come.  Miss  Wales 
asked  me  to  a  play  at  her  house  last  fall  and  I 
am  so  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  return  it.  I 
was  afraid  I  never  could." 

"Hello,  Eleanor.  Good-afternoon,  Miss 
Carlson."  Beatrice  Egerton  threw  her  books 
and  then  herself  unceremoniously  on  to 
Eleanor's  couch. 

Beatrice   could   hardly  have  told  why  she 


SOPHOMORE  287 

persisted  in  inflicting  her  society  upon  Elea- 
nor Watson.  In  her  shallow  way  she  was 
fond  of  her,  and  she  felt  vaguely  that  consider- 
ing her  own  careless  code  of  morals  it  would 
be  inconsistent  to  drop  Eleanor  now,  just  be- 
cause she  had  followed  similar  standards.  At 
the  same  time  she  was  angry  at  what  she 
looked  upon  as  a  betrayal  of  her  friendship, 
and  considered  that  any  annoyance  she  might 
inflict  on  Eleanor  was  no  more  than  she 
deserved.  As  for  Dora  Carlson,  she  amused 
Beatrice,  who,  being  thoroughly  self-seeking 
herself,  could  not  imagine  why  the  exclusive 
Eleanor  should  choose  to  exhibit  a  freakish 
tendency  toward  philanthropy  in  this  one 
direction.  Beatrice  would  have  liked,  for  the 
satisfaction  there  is  in  solving  a  puzzle,  to  get 
at  the  root  of  the  matter.  Accordingly  she 
always  took  pains  to  draw  Dora  out. 

"  I've  met  you  before  this  afternoon,  Miss 
Carlson,"  she  said,  thumping  a  refractory 
pillow  into  place.  "  What  are  you  doing  up  on 
the  campus  ?  " 

It  was  the  most  casual  remark,  but  Dora 
answered  it  with  the  naive  frankness  that  was 
her  peculiar  charm. 


288        BErrr  WALES 

"  I  am  giving  out  my  invitations  for  a 
sugaring-off,"  she  said. 

"A  sugaring-off! "  repeated  Miss  Egerton 
gaily.  "  Now  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what 
that  isf  but  it  sounds  very  festive." 

Dora  looked  at  her  questioningly  and  then 
at  Eleanor.  "  Miss  Egerton,"  she  said  at  last, 
"  I  should  be  very  pleased  to  have  you  come 
too,  because  you  are  Eleanor's  dear  friend." 

Beatrice  gave  a  little  shriek  of  amusement. 
"  Are  you  really  going,  Eleanor  ?  " 

Eleanor  nodded. 

"  Then  I  shall  certainly  come  too,"  declared 
Beatrice,  merrily,  "  to  see  that  you  don't  eat 
too  much  sugar." 

As  Dora  danced  down  the  Belden  House 
steps  a  few  moments  later,  her  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles.  Miss  Wales  was  coming 
too.  They  were  all  coming.  "  I  guess  my 
father  would  be  pleased  if  he  could  look  in  on 
us  to-night,"  thought  the  little  freshman  hap- 
pily. Then,  as  the  college  clock  chimed  out 
the  hour,  her  brow  wrinkled  with  anxiety. 
The  kitchen  must  be  swept, — Dora  had  de- 
cided views  about  Mrs.  Bryant's  housekeep- 
ing,— and  the  "  surprise,"  which  was  to  eke 


SOPHOMORE  289 

out  the  entertainment  afforded  by  the  sugar- 
ing-off  proper,  had  yet  to  be  prepared.  The 
unaccustomed  responsibilities  of  hostess 
weighed  heavily  upon  Dora  Carlson  as  she 
traversed  the  long  mile  that  stretched  between 
the  campus  and  50  Market  Street. 

It  was  an  odd  little  party  which  gathered 
that  night  in  Mrs.  Bryant's  dingy  kitchen. 
The  aggressive  Nettie  Dwight,  two  hopelessly 
commonplace  sophomores,  cousins,  from  a 
little  town  down  the  river,  and  Dora  com- 
posed the  Market  Street  contingent.  They 
were  all  very  much  in  awe  of  Eleanor's 
beauty,  and  of  Beatrice's  elaborate  gown  and 
more  elaborate  manner.  Betty  Wales,  en- 
veloped in  one  of  Mrs.  Bryant's  "all-over" 
kitchen  aprons,  vigorously  stirring  the  big 
kettleful  of  bubbling,  odorous  syrup,  tried  her 
best  to  put  the  others  at  their  ease  and  to 
make  things  go,  as  affairs  at  the  college 
always  did.  But  it  was  no  use.  Everything 
progressed  too  smoothly.  Nothing  burned  or 
boiled  over  or  refused  to  cook, — incidents 
which  always  add  the  spice  of  adventure  to  a 
chafing  dish  spread.  Nobody  had  come  in  a 


290        BErrr 

kimono.  There  was  no  bed  to  loll  back  on, 
no  sociable  sparsity  of  plates,  no  embarrassing 
interruptions  in  the  way  of  heads  of  uninvited 
guests  poked  in  the  door  and  apologetically 
withdrawn  ;  and  the  anxious  pucker  of  hospi- 
tality on  the  face  of  the  little  hostess  imposed 
an  added  restraint  and  formality  upon  the 
oddly  assorted  company  of  guests.  Beatrice 
Egerton  played  with  her  rings,  yawned  with- 
out dissimulation,  and  wished  she  had  stayed 
at  home ;  Eleanor  bravely  parried  Nettie 
Dwight's  incisive  questions  about  "  her  set "  ; 
and  Betty,  stirring  and  talking  to  the  cousins 
and  Dora,  had  time  to  admire  Eleanor's  self- 
control  and  to  wonder  pityingly  if  there  were 
many  girls  in  Harding  College  so  completely 
"  out  of  it "  as  these  four  seemed  to  be.  And 
yet  they  were  not  unhappy  ;  they  were  enjoy- 
ing Dora  Carlson's  sugaring-off  as  though  it 
had  been  a  delightful  college  spread  instead 
of  a  dull  and  dreadful  party. 

When  the  biscuits,  that  Dora  had  made  her- 
self, were  done  and  the  sugar  boiled  to  the 
right  consistency,  everybody  began  to  brighten 
up,  and  the  refreshment  feature  bade  fair  to  be 
a  real  success.  It  was  too  late  in  the  spring 


SOPHOMORE  291 

for  snow,  so  Dora  had  provided  some  little 
cakes  of  ice  on  which  to  wax  the  sugar.  They 
were  not  quite  so  good  a  substitute  as  might 
have  been  desired,  for  they  had  a  fashion  of 
slipping  dangerously  over  the  plates,  and  then 
the  hot  sugar  slipped  and  spread  on  the  ice 
and  had  to  be  dexterously  coaxed  to  settle 
down  in  one  place  and  melt  out  a  cool  bed  for 
itself,  as  it  does  easily  enough  in  snow.  But 
all  this  only  added  to  the  interest  of  the  occa- 
sion. One  sophomore  cousin  lost  her  cake  of 
ice  on  the  floor,  and  she  showed  more  anima- 
tion than  she  had  in  all  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing together,  in  spite  of  Betty's  valiant  efforts. 
Then  Nettie  Dwight  suggested  that  they  grain 
part  of  the  sugar,  so,  when  everybody  had 
eaten  as  much  as  possible  of  the  waxed  va- 
riety, spread  on  as  many  crisp  little  biscuits 
as  Dora  could  force  upon  them,  Dora  brought 
saucers  full  of  the  hot  syrup  and  there  was  a 
stirring  contest,  with  results  in  the  shape  of 
creamy  maple  candy,  which  Dora  put  out  to 
cool,  ready  to  be  eaten  later. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  with  a  little  quiver 
of  eagerness  in  her  voice,  "  there  is  one  course 
more.  Look  under  your  plates." 


292        BErrr  WALES 

Search  revealed  a  carefully  folded  square 
of  white  paper  at  each  place.  Beatrice  got 
hers  open  first  and  muttered,  "  What  perfect 
nonsense ! "  before  Eleanor  could  stop  her 
with  an  imploring  glance. 

"  Such  a  bright  idea ! "  cried  Betty  Wales, 
hurrying  to  the  rescue.  "  They're  fortunes, 
aren't  they?  Oh,  dear,  I'm  afraid  mine 
doesn't  fit.  It's  much  too  grand/' 

Dora  laughed  gleefully.  "That's  the  fun, 
you  see, — to  notice  how  they  fit." 

"  How'd  you  ever  think  of  it?"  giggled 
one  of  the  cousins.  "  There's  a  man  in  mine 
all  right." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  think  of  it  myself,"  explained 
Dora,  modestly.  "  I  found  it  in  a  magazine. 
I  don't  suppose  any  of  you  see  the  '  Farmer's 
Friendly  Counsellor.' " 

"  No,"  said  Betty,  quickly,  "  I  don't  believe 
we  do." 

"  It's  a  fine  magazine,"  continued  Dora, 
"  with  quantities  of  good  reading  matter  of 
all  kinds.  There's  always  one  page  for  farm- 
ers' wives,  with  recipes  and  hints  for  home 
dressmakers.  Last  winter  I  read  about  giving 
a  luncheon,  and  it  sounded  so  pretty  that  I 


SOPHOMORE  293 

cut  it  out,  though  I  never  expected  to  use  it. 
Right  in  the  middle  of  it  was  one  course  like 
these  fortunes,  only  they  were  to  be  put  into 
stuffed  peppers,  instead  of  stuffing,  and  when 
the  guests  took  the  covers  off  their  peppers, 
there  they  would  find  their  fortunes." 

"  But  Miss  Carlson,"  began  Beatrice,  im- 
patiently, "  don't  you  see  that  the  whole 
point " 

"  I  like  this  way  just  as  well,"  broke  in 
Betty  Wales.  "  What  you  really  care  about 
is  the  fortune,  and  it  doesn't  matter  whether 
it's  in  a  pepper  or  under  your  plate." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  agreed  Eleanor,  crumpling  up 
her  fortune  nervously. 

"  And  now,"  said  Dora,  "  we'll  all  read 
them  out  loud  and  see  how  they  fit.  I  put 
them  around  without  looking  at  them,  and  I 
didn't  know  where  any  of  you  were  going  to 
sit." 

"  I  guess  mine  fits  pretty  well,"  said  the 
giggling  cousin,  whose  fortune  had  a  man 
in  it. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  begin  ?  "  suggested 
Betty,  and  the  cousin  began  with  avidity. 
Dora  had  absolutely  no  literary  ability ;  the 


294        BErrr  WALES 

spontaneous  gaiety  that  bubbled  up  in  all  that 
she  said  and  did  was  entirely  lacking  in  the 
stiff,  sentimental  little  character-sketch,  but 
it  pleased  its  reader,  and  Betty  and  Eleanor 
joined  in  declaring  it  very  interesting. 

"  Now,  Eleanor,"  said  Betty,  "  you  come 
next." 

Eleanor  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
tore  mine  up  before  I  knew  we  were  to  read 
them."  She  held  up  the  crumpled  bait  of 
paper. 

"  Oh,  you  can  smooth  that  out,"  said  Betty, 
noticing  Dora's  disappointment.  "  Here,  give 
it  to  me." 

Eleanor  surrendered  the  paper  in  silence, 
and  without  glancing  at  the  contents  Betty 
smoothed  it  out  and  passed  it  back. 

"  Now,  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  looked  around  the  table.  Every- 
body was  waiting.  There  was  no  escape. 
Resolutely  she  pulled  herself  together  and 
plunged  in. 

"  You  are  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor  and 
generosity.  You  never  think  of  yourself,  but 
are  always  trying  to  make  other  people  happy. 
Your  noble  nature  is  shown  in  your  beauti- 


SOPHOMORE  295 

ful "  Eleanor's  voice  faltered  and  she 

flushed  painfully.  "  I  can't  go  on,"  she  said. 
"  It's  so — so "  She  stopped  in  utter  con- 
fusion. 

Dora  had  been  listening  with  shining  eyes. 
"  Oh,  please  go  on,"  she  begged.  "  That's  the 
very  one  I  wrote  for  you.  I  didn't  plan  it  a 
bit,  but  I  hoped  you'd  get  that  one." 

The  matter  might  have  been  adjusted  easily 
enough,  if  Beatrice,  who  was  sitting  between 
Betty  and  Dora,  had  not  turned  to  Betty  with 
her  oracular  smile,  and  murmured,  "  A  keen 
sense  of  irony  for  one  so  young,  isn't  it?  "  be- 
hind her  hand. 

Betty  flushed  in  spite  of  herself  and  looked 
up  to  find  Dora  staring  at  them  with  wide, 
startled  eyes.  She  had  caught  the  word 
irony,  and  distinctly  remembered  the  succinct 
definition  that  she  had  learned  years  before 
at  school — "  saying  the  opposite  of  what  you 
mean."  She  looked  at  Eleanor  who  was  strug- 
gling to  regain  her  composure  and  attacked 
the  situation  with  simple  directness. 

"  Miss  Egerton,"  she  said,  "  I  couldn't  avoid 
overhearing  you  just  now.  I  don't  see  why 
any  one  should  think  I  didn't  mean  what  I 


296        BErrr 

wrote  about  Eleanor,  Of  course  I  meant  it 
You  know  I  did,  don't  you,  Eleanor  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  meant  it,"  repeated  Elea- 
nor, with  an  unsteady  little  laugh.  "  If  you 
hadn't,  I  shouldn't  have  minded  reading  it. 
Please  forgive  me." 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  Before  the 
three  strangers  had  had  time  to  wonder  what 
the  trouble  was,  Betty  had  plunged  gaily  into 
her  fortune.  Nettie  followed  eagerly,  and 
Beatrice  had  the  grace  to  bring  up  the  rear. 
There  was  the  candy  to  eat  after  that  and  the 
party  broke  up  with  a  fair  semblance  of  mirth. 
But  as  she  washed  up  the  big  pile  of  sticky 
dishes,  Dora's  face  was  troubled.  What  could 
Miss  Egerton  have  meant  ?  Why  should  Elea- 
nor's dearest  and  most  intimate  friend  have 
said  such  a  thing?  How  could  she  have 
thought  it? 

Eleanor  walked  home  wrapped  in  a  silence 
which  Betty's  most  vigorous  sallies  could  not 
penetrate.  Long  after  Dora  had  finished  her 
dishes  and  gone  to  bed,  she  sat  in  her  Morris 
chair  in  the  dark,  wide-awake,  every  nerve 
throbbing  painfully.  She  had  failed  Dora 
Carlson,  spoiled  the  party  that  the  poor  child 


SOPHOMORE  297 

had  so  counted  on,  made  her  Beatrice  Eger- 
ton's  butt  and  laughing  stock.  Dora  would 
never  wholly  trust  her  again.  She  would 
wonder  what  Beatrice  had  meant.  By  and  by 
she  would  guess,  and  the  friendship  that  Elea- 
nor had  meant  should  brighten  her  college 
course,  would  be  turned  to  a  bitter  memory. 
Whether  or  not  she  ever  knew  the  whole 
miserable  story  would  make  small  difference. 
She,  Eleanor  Watson,  had  made  Dora  waste 
her  love  on  a  cheat — a  thief;  she  had  made 
Betty  Wales  and  Miss  Ferris  help  a  cheat. 

Eleanor's  face  softened.  Betty  had  been 
awfully  good  to  Dora.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she 
had  not  been  the  one  to  tell  Mr.  Blake.  But 
Betty's  disappointment  was  not  the  worst 
thing.  Betty  would  make  other  friends — find 
other  interests.  Dora  Carlson  was  different  ; 
she  had  not  the  talent  for  making  many 
friends,  and  in  losing  Eleanor  she  would  lose 
all  she  had.  For  the  first  time  Eleanor  real- 
ized how  mean  and  contemptible  her  action 
had  been,  because  it  did  not  concern  herself 
alone,  but  involved  every  one  of  the  people 
who  cared  about  her — Jim  and  her  father, 
Dora,  Betty,  Miss  Ferris.  It  was  a  short  list ; 


298        BErrr  WALES 

perhaps  Jean  and  Kate  Denise  cared  a  little 
too.  She  felt  no  resentment  against  Beatrice. 
There  was  no  room  for  it  in  the  press  of  deeper 
emotions.  Her  one  idea  was  that  she  must  do 
something  to  save  them  all.  But  what? 
Creep  away  like  a  thief  in  the  night — let  them 
forget  that  she  had  ever  been  a  disgrace  to 
them  and  to  19 — ?  Eleanor's  pride  re- 
volted against  such  a  course,  and  yet  what 
else  was  there  to  do  ?  She  had  not  even  ar- 
rived at  Betty's  half  answer  to  the  problem 
when  she  undressed  in  the  silence  of  the  great, 
sleeping  house  and,  thoroughly  tired  with  her 
long  vigil,  forgot  the  difficult  tangle  until 
morning. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    MAY-DAY    RESOLUTION 

THE  spring  had  been  a  late  one  at  Harding, 
but  it  had  come  at  last  with  a  sudden  rush 
and  a  glare  of  breathless  midsummer  heat. 
The  woods  of  Paradise  were  alive  with  fresh 
young  green,  gay  with  bird  songs,  sweet  with 
the  smell  of  growing  things.  The  campus  too 
was  bright  in  its  new  livery.  The  tulips  in 
front  of  the  Hilton  House  flaunted  their  scarlet 
and  gold  cups  in  the  sunshine.  The  great 
bed  of  narcissus  around  the  side  entrance  of 
college  hall  sweetened  the  air  with  its  delicate 
perfume,  and  out  on  the  back  campus  the 
apple-trees,  bare  and  brown  only  a  day  or  so 
before,  were  wrapped  in  a  soft  pink  mist  that 
presaged  the  coming  glory  of  bud  and  blos- 
som. 

It  was  there,  in  the  square  of  dappled  sun- 
shine and  shadow  under  the  apple-trees,  at 
once  the  loveliest  and  most  sequestered  spot 
on  the  campus,  that  the  Harding  girls  were 

299 


300        BErrr  WALES 

holding  a  May-day  fete.  It  was  a  strictly  im- 
promptu affair.  Somebody  had  discovered  at 
breakfast  the  day  before  that  to-morrow  would 
be  May-day,  and  somebody  else  had  suggested 
that  as  it  was  also  Saturday,  there  ought  to  be 
some  sort  of  celebration.  A  May  queen  was 
decreed  "  too  old  "  ;  a  May  masque  too  much 
trouble.  Then  somebody  said,  "  Let's  all  just 
dress  up  as  little  girls  and  roll  hoops,"  and 
the  idea  met  with  instant  favor.  It  was 
passed  along  at  chapel  and  morning  classes, 
and  at  three  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  the 
whole  college,  its  hair  in  waving  curls  or 
tightly  braided  pig-tails,  its  skirts  shortened, 
its  waists  lengthened  and  encircled  by  sashes, 
had  gathered  in  the  space  under  the  apple- 
trees,  carrying  hoops,  dolls  and  skipping 
ropes,  intent  on  getting  all  the  fun  possible 
out  of  being  little  once  more. 

There  were  all  sorts  of  children  there ;  little 
country  girls  with  checked  gingham  aprons 
and  sunbonnets,  demure  little  Puritan  maids 
with  cork-screw  curls  and  pantalets,  sturdy 
little  girls  in  sailor  suits,  sweet  little  girls  in 
ruffled  muslins,  tall  little  girls,  all  arms  and 
ankles.  There  was  even  a  Topsy,  gay  in  yel- 


SOPHOMORE  301 

low  calico,  and  an  almond-eyed  Japanese 
whose  long  kimono  and  high-piled  hair  pre- 
vented her  taking  part  in  the  active  American 
games  of  her  mates.  The  taller  girls  were 
necessarily  absurd.  Some  of  the  smaller  ones 
were  surprisingly  realistic.  And  all,  big  and 
little,  danced  and  laughed  and  squabbled, 
tripped  over  their  skipping  ropes,  pursued 
their  hoops  or  played  with  their  dolls  under 
the  apple-trees  in  true  "  little  girl "  fashion 
and  with  the  utmost  zest  and  abandon. 

Miss  Ferris's  room  at  the  Hilton  House 
overlooked  the  apple  orchard,  and  presently 
she  and  Miss  Raymond  strolled  out  together 
to  see  the  fun.  They  were  greeted  with  a 
shout  of  joyous  welcome  from  a  noisy  group 
in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  lawn,  who  im- 
mediately joined  hands  and  came  in  a  long, 
wavering  line,  "  hippity-hopping "  to  meet 
them. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ferris,"  called  Dorothy  King 
from  one  end  of  the  line,  "  we  want  you  and 
Miss  Raymond  to  be  judge.  Which  of  us 
looks  the  youngest?  " 

"  We've  been  disputing  about  it  all  the 
afternoon,"  added  Mary  Brooks  breathlessly 


302        BErrr  WALES 

from  the  middle  of  the  line.  "  You  see  we're 
all  dressed  alike  in  white  muslin  and  blue 
sashes.  Now  Miss  Raymond,  don't  I  look  lots 
younger  than  Dottie  ?  " 

"  Stand  in  a  row,"  commanded  Miss  Ferris 
laughingly,  and  the  chattering  group  straight- 
ened out  demurely,  with  much  nudging  of 
elbows  and  planting  of  feet  on  an  imaginary 
line.  Miss  Raymond  and  Miss  Ferris  con- 
sidered a  moment,  and  then  held  a  brief  con- 
sultation. 

"  We  both  decide  in  favor  of  Betty  Wales," 
announced  Miss  Ferris.  "She  looks  about 
nine  and  none  of  the  rest  of  you  are  under 
twelve." 

"  There  !  What  did  I  tell  you !  "  shrieked 
Betty  gaily,  her  curls  bobbing,  her  sash  ends 
flying. 

"  I  protest,"  called  Katherine  Kittredge. 
"  Betty  doesn't  look  over  twelve  any  of  the 
time,  and  the  rest  of  us  look  twenty.  We've 
taken  off  eight  years  and  she's  only  dropped 
three.  'Tain't  fair !  "  and  Katherine  burst 
into  a  beautiful  "  little  girl  "  boohoo. 

"Don't  you  wanter  hold  my  dollie?"  said 
Mary  Brooks,  tendering  a  handkerchief  pup- 


SOPHOMORE  303 

pet  to  Miss  Raymond  with  a  perfect  imitation 
of  childish  innocence. 

"  Oh,  no,  come  an'  tell  us  a  story,"  begged 
Babbie,  twisting  her  white  apron  into  a  roll. 

"  You'd  ruther  roll  hoops,  hadn't  you  ?  "  said 
Katherine  to  Miss  Ferris. 

"  Please  tie  on  my  hair-ribbon,"  demanded 
Bob,  who  in  spite  of  a  much  beruffled  dres? 
and  a  resplendent  array  of  doll  and  sash-rib- 
bon, looked  exactly  as  tomboyish  as  usual. 

Miss  Ferris  and  Miss  Raymond  appeared  to 
be  properly  amused  by  all  this  nonsense,  and 
Miss  Raymond,  escorted  by  a  little  crowd  of 
her  special  admirers,  went  on  to  the  crest  of 
the  hill  to  see  Alice  Waite's  doll  party,  which 
was  being  held  on  the  grass  at  the  top  of  the 
dust-pan  slope.  But  Miss  Ferris  refused  all 
the  invitations.  She  had  only  come  out  for  a 
moment,  she  said,  and  must  go  straight  back 
to  her  work. 

Betty  and  Mary  Brooks  walked  over  to  the 
Hilton  House  with  her.  When  she  had  gone 
in  Betty  seized  Mary's  hand  and  pulled  her 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  "  Let's  trill 
up  to  Eleanor,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think 
she's  been  out  at  all." 


304        BErrr  WALES 

Mary  looked  longingly  back  at  the  May 
party.  "  I  believe — yes,  they've  found  a 
hurdy-gurdy,  Betty.  What's  the  use  of 
bothering  if  she  doesn't  know  enough  to  come 
down?" 

"  Just  a  minute,"  pleaded  Betty.  "  Here 
she  is.  Oh,  Eleanor,  come  out  and  watch,  even 
if  you  haven't  dressed  up.  It's  piles  of  fun." 

"  Is  it?"  said  Eleanor  uncertainly,  touched 
by  Betty's  constant  thoughtfulness.  "  Well, 
perhaps  I  will  come  later.  I  must  finish  a 
letter  first." 

"  Finish  a  letter,"  echoed  Mary,  "  with  that 
hurdy-gurdy  going  !  I  admire  your  concen- 
tration. Betty,  truly  I  can't  stand  it  another 
minute.  I'm  going  back." 

"  All  right.  Good-bye,  Eleanor.  Hurry  up 
and  come,"  called  Betty,  flying  after  Mary 
down  the  path. 

Eleanor  Watson  looked  after  them  for  a 
moment  and  then  with  a  little  despairing  sigh 
sat  down  again  at  her  desk.  She  was  writing 
to  Jim.  It  was  almost  a  month  since  she  had 
sent  off  her  last  letter  to  him  and  yet  there 
seemed  to  be  nothing  to  say.  She  added  a 
line  or  two,  dropped  her  pen  and  went  back  to 


SOPHOMORE  305 

the  window.  The  girls  were  dancing  to  the 
music  of  the  hurdy-gurdy.  Alice  Waite  was 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  hugging  a 
huge  rag-doll  in  her  arms  as  if  it  was  her 
dearest  treasure.  Eleanor  shrugged  her 
shoulders  impatiently.  The  whole  affair  was 
perfectly  absurd.  She  had  told  Alice  Waite 
so  at  luncheon,  in  her  haughtiest  manner. 
She  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table  and  be- 
gan to  read,  but  in  spite  of  her  determination 
to  ignore  it,  her  thoughts  would  wander  to  the 
pretty  picture  outside  her  window.  The 
shouts  and  laughter,  the  gay  babel  of  talk  with 
the  undertone  of  droning  music  rang  in  her 
ears.  She  slammed  down  her  window,  but 
still  she  could  hear  them. 

What  a  good  time  they  were  having  !  Yes, 
they  were  absurd,  with  the  absurdity  that  be- 
longs to  youth — happy,  light-hearted,  incon- 
sequent youth.  Eleanor  Watson  felt  that  she 
had  left  that  sort  of  thing  far  behind  her. 
Before  the  summer  when  Judge  Watson  had 
brought  home  a  gay  young  wife  to  take  his 
daughter's  place  at  the  head  of  his  household, 
before  the  night  on  the  river  when  she  had 
seen  herself  as  Harding  college  saw  her,  be- 


306        BErrr  WALES 

fore  the  Indian  summer  afternoon  when  she 
had  fought  and  lost  her  battle  on  the  stairway 
of  the  main  building, — before  those  crises 
she  could  have  been  a  happy  little  girl  with 
the  rest  of  them,  but  not  now.  Her  heart  was 
full  of  bitter,  passionate  envy.  How  easy  life 
was  for  them,  while  for  her  it  seemed  to  grow 
harder  and  more  impossible  every  day.  In 
the  week  that  had  passed  since  the  sugaring- 
off  she  had  seen  Dora  once,  and  she  had  been 
more  hurt  by  the  restraint  and  embarrassment 
that  the  child  could  not  hide  than  by  all  that 
had  gone  before.  How  was  she  to  win  back 
Dora's  confidence  and  change  Betty's  pity  to 
respect  ? 

She  could  not  stand  that  music  another 
minute.  She  would  go  for  a  long  walk — far 
enough  at  least  to  escape  from  hurdy-gurdies 
and  chattering  girls.  She  got  her  hat,  pulled 
on  a  light  silk  coat,  for  in  spite  of  the  unsea- 
sonable heat  the  late  afternoon  would  be  cool, 
and  hurried  down-stairs.  Hastening  through 
the  lower  hall  she  almost  ran  into  Miss  Ferris, 
the  last  person  she  wanted  to  meet. 

"  My  dear,"  Miss  Ferris  cut  short  her  apol- 
ogy, "  we  evidently  have  too  much  to  think 


SOPHOMORE  307 

about,  both  of  us."  She  looked  at  Eleanor 
keenly.  "  Why  aren't  you  out  being  a  little 
girl  with  the  rest  of  them  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  1  didn't  feel  like  it,  Miss  Ferris,"  said 
Eleanor,  turning  away  from  the  searching 
gray  eyes.  "  I  was  going  for  a  walk  in- 
stead." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then" — Miss  Ferris  hesitated — "may  I 
come  too,  or  don't  you  want  me  ?  " 

For  an  astute  person  Miss  Ferris  developed 
all  at  once  an  amazing  density.  She  did  not 
seem  to  notice  the  ungracious  stiffness  of 
Eleanor's  assent. 

"  Good  I  "  she  cried  enthusiastically,  run- 
ning off  like  a  girl  to  get  ready.  Eleanor 
waited,  her  face  set  in  hard  lines  of  resentful 
endurance.  She  could  not  openly  insult  Miss 
Ferris,  who  had  been  kindness  itself  to  her  all 
the  year,  but  she  would  be  as  cold  and  offish 
as  she  pleased. 

"  Now  which  way  shall  we  go  ? "  asked 
Miss  Ferris  eagerly  as  they  started  off. 

"  It  makes  no  difference  to  me,  Miss  Ferris." 
Eleanor's  tone  was  frigidly  courteous. 


308        BETTT  WALES 

11  Then  suppose  we  go  to  Paradise.  It's  al- 
ways lovely  there." 

Almost  in  silence  they  climbed  down  the 
steep  slope  that  leads  to  the  water  path,  crossed 
the  sunny  stretch  of  meadow  land  and  came 
out  into  the  dim,  silent  wood  beyond.  Here 
the  path  widened  and  Miss  Ferris,  who  had 
led  the  way,  waited  for  Eleanor  to  come  up 
with  her. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  "  she  said  with  a  little 
catch  in  her  voice.  "  There's  nothing  quite 
like  the  woods  in  spring,  is  there  ?  Oh,  I'm 
so  glad  I  ran  away  !  " 

"  Ran  away?"  questioned  Eleanor. 

"  Yes,  from  my  work  and  my  worries  and 
myself  out  into  this  big,  beautiful,  new  world. 
Doesn't  it  make  you  wish  you  could  send  out 
fresh  shoots  and  blossoms  yourself,  and  help 
make  the  world  glad  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Eleanor  coldly,  and 
again  she  felt  the  gray  eyes,  keen  and  yet 
very  kindly,  fastened  on  her  face. 

A  turn  in  the  path  brought  the  end  of  the 
grove  into  view.  "  Oh,  dear  !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Ferris  sadly.  "I'd  forgotten  that  Paradise 
was  so  very  small.  Let's  go  back  to  that  big 


SOPHOMORE  309 

pine-tree  with  the  great  gnarled  roots  and  sit 
down  by  the  water  and  forget  that  we  aren't 
lost  in  a  lovely  primeval  wilderness." 

Eleanor  followed  her  in  silence  and  they 
found  seats  on  the  roots  of  the  big  tree,  Elea- 
nor choosing  one  as  far  as  she  dared  from  her 
companion. 

"  And  now,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  as  soon  as 
they  were  settled,  "  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  About  what  ?  "  inquired  Eleanor  steadily. 

"  What  you  were  running  away  from." 

Eleanor  flushed  angrily.  "  Miss  Ferris,  did 
any  one  ask  you  to " 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Ferris  quickly.  "  No  one 
told  me  that  you  were  in  trouble.  I  wish 
some  one  had.  I'm  afraid  I've  been  very 
blind.  I've  let  you  worry  yourself  almost  ill 
over  something  and  never  asked  you  if  I  could 
help.  I've  been  so  busy  being  proud  of  you 
this  year  that  I've  never  even  noticed  how 
tired  and  worn  out  you  were  getting." 

"  Proud  !  "    repeated    Eleanor,    scornfully. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  firmly,  "  proud. 
You've  made  a  splendid  record,  Miss  Watson, 
—  a  remarkable  record,  considering  last 
year." 


310        BErrr  WALES 

11  Please  don't.  You  wouldn't  say  that  ii 
you  understood." 

Miss  Ferris  looked  puzzled.  "  Don't  tell 
me  anything  that  you'd  rather  not,"  she  said, 
"  but  there  is  one  thing  that  a  friend  always 
wants  to  know.  Do  you  see  your  way  out, 
Miss  Watson?" 

"  There  isn't  any  way  out." 

"  Oh,  but  I  think  there  is  always  one  some- 
where," said  Miss  Ferris,  brightly.  "  You're 
quite  sure  we  couldn't  find  it  between  us  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  If  you  ever  change  your  mind " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Eleanor,  curtly. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  "  We  runaways 
mustn't  be  gone  too  long.  Have  you  any 
idea  what  time  it  is  ?  "  asked  Miss  Ferris. 

Eleanor  did  not  answer,  and  Miss  Ferris 
looked  up  to  find  her  crying  softly,  her  face 
hidden  in  one  hand,  her  shoulders  shaking 
with  suppressed  sobs.  For  a  moment  Miss 
Ferris  watched  her  without  speaking.  Then 
she  moved  nearer  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  take  Eleanor's  free  one. 

"  I'm  very,  very  sorry,"  she  said  kindly. 
0  I  wish  I  could  have  helped." 


SOPHOMORE  311 

To  her  surprise  Eleanor's  sobs  ceased  sud- 
denly. "  I'd  rather  tell  any  one  else,"  she 
said  wearily.  "  I  hate  to  have  you  despise 
me,  Miss  Ferris." 

For  answer  Miss  Ferris  only  gave  the  hand 
she  held  a  soft,  friendly  little  squeeze. 

Then  it  came  out — the  sad,  shameful  story 
in  a  fierce,  scornful  torrent  of  words.  When 
it  was  told,  Eleanor  lifted  her  head  and  faced 
Miss  Ferris  proudly.  "  Now  you  know,"  she 
said.  "  Now  you  can  see  that  I  was  right — 
that  there  isn't  any  way  out." 

Miss  Ferris  waited  a  moment.  "  Miss  Wat- 
son," she  said  at  last,  "  I  can't  feel  quite  as 
you  do  about  it.  I  think  that  if  you  honestly 
regret  what  you  did,  if  you  are  bound  to  live 
it  down,  if  you  know  that  in  all  your  life  long 
you  are  never  going  to  do  anything  of  the  sort 
again, — never  going  to  want  anything  badly 
enough  to  play  false  for  it, — why  then  the 
way  out  is  perfectly  plain.  That  is  the  way 
out — to  let  this  time  teach  you  never  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort  again." 

Eleanor  shook  her  head  hopelessly.  "  But 
don't  you  see  that  I  can't  put  it  behind  me — 
that  I  can't  live  it  down,  as  you  say.  The 


312 

girls  won't  let  me  forget  that  I  was  taken  into 
Dramatic  Club  the  first  time.  They  won'i 
let  me  forget  that  I  am  the  only  sophomore 
who  is  practically  sure  of  a  place  on  the 

'  Argus  *  board.  I  tried "  Eleanor  gave 

a  pitiful  little  history  of  her  efforts  to  estab- 
lish her  literary  reputation  on  a  fair  basis 
with  the  song  and  the  story. 

"  I  see,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  thoughtfully. 
"  Miss  Watson,  if  I  understand  you  correctly, 
you  find  yourself  in  the  position  of  a  man 
who,  having  stolen  a  precious  stone,  repents 
and  strains  every  nerve  to  pay  for  his  treas- 
ure. But  as  he  is  commonly  supposed  to  be 
the  lawful  owner  of  the  stone,  his  neighbors 
naturally  resent  his  eagerness  to  gain  more 
riches  and  consider  him  grasping.  It's  going 
to  be  very  hard  for  you  to  earn  that  stone, 
isn't  it?" 

"The  thing  to  do,"  said  Eleanor  with 
quick  decision,  "  is  to  give  it  back." 

Miss  Ferris  waited. 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  will  believe  me," 
Eleanor  went  on  after  a  minute,  "  because  it 
seems  so  unlikely  ;  but  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  thought  of  resigning  from  Dramatic  Club." 


SOPHOMORE  313 

"  You  must  remember,"  said  Miss  Ferris, 
quietly,  "  that  if  you  should  resign  now,  you 
would  never  be  voted  into  the  society  again, 
no  matter  how  much  your  work  might  de- 
serve recognition." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  And  that  so  unusual  a  proceeding  will 
create  comment.  People  who  don't  under- 
stand will  be  likely  to  say  unpleasant  things." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  should  mind — much," 
said  Eleanor,  unsteadily.  "  It's  the  people 
who  do  understand  that  I  care  about — and 
myself.  I  want  to  feel  that  I've  done  a  little 
something  to  repair  damages.  Of  course  this 
won't  make  things  just  right.  Some  other 
girl  in  19 —  ought  to  have  been  in  the  first 
four,  but  it  will  be  something,  won't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Ferris,  soberly.  "  I  should 
say  it  would  be  a  great  deal." 

The  walk  back  through  the  green  aisle  of 
wood  and  thicket  was  almost  as  silent  as  the 
walk  out  had  been,  but  there  was  a  new 
spring  in  Eleanor's  step  and  an  expression  of 
resolute  relief  on  her  face  that  had  not  been 
there  an  hour  before. 

As  they  turned   into  the  campus  Eleanor 


3H 

broke  silence.  "  Miss  Ferris,  if  the  man 
should  return  the  stone,  do  you  think  he 
ought  to  confess  to  having  stolen  it  ?  " 

Miss  Ferris  looked  up  at  the  orchard  on  the 
hill  where  the  girls  were  dispersing  with  much 
talk  and  laughter,  with  gay  good-byes  and 
careless  snatches  of  song,  and  then  back  to  the 
girl  beside  her.  "  No,"  she  said  at  last.  "  If 
we  were  all  old  in  the  ways  of  this  world  and 
wise  and  kind  enough,  it  might  do,  but  not 
now,  I  think.  I  agree  with  the  girls  who 
have  been  keeping  your  secret.  I  believe  you 
can  accomplish  more  for  others  and  for  your- 
self, in  the  large  sense,  by  stating  no  reason 
for  your  action.  I  know  we  can  trust  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eleanor.  Then  all  at 
oiice  a  strong  revulsion  of  feeling  overcame 
her.  "  But  I  haven't  promised  to  resign.  I 
don't  believe  I  can  do  it.  Think  what  it  will 
mean  to  drop  out  of  things — to  be  thought 
queerer  than  ever — to " 

•'  Caught  red-handed  ! "  cried  a  mocking 
voice  behind  them,  and  three  stealthy  figures 
bounded  out  from  a  tangle  of  shrubbery. 
Betty,  Madeline  and  Mary  Brooks  had  come 
down  the  hill  by  the  back  path  and,  making  a 


SOPHOMORE  315 

detour  to  leave  Rachel  at  the  gate  nearest  her 
"  little  white  house  round  the  corner,"  had 
discovered  the  truants  and  stolen  upon  them 
unaware. 

"  We're  sorry  you  both  had  so  much  to  do," 
said  Betty,  demurely. 

"  And  that  you  don't  appreciate  May 
parties,"  added  Mary. 

"  And  haven't  a  proper  feeling  for  hurdy- 
gurdies,"  finished  Madeline. 

"  Ah,  but  you  can't  tell  what  deep  philo- 
sophical problems  we  may  have  been  working 
out  answers  for  down  in  Paradise,"  said  Miss 
Ferris,  playfully. 

Betty  slipped  a  soft  arm  around  Eleanor's 
waist.  "  I'd  rather  go  for  a  walk  with  her 
than  to  any  May  party  that  was  ever  in- 
vented," she  whispered.  "  Isn't  she  just 
splendid  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Eleanor,  solemnly,  "  so 
splendid  that  I  guess  I  can't  live  up  to  her, 
Betty." 

"  Nonsense !  That's  the  very  reason  why 
she  is  splendid — that  she  makes  people  live  up 
to  her,  whether  they  can  or  not." 

And  then,  feeling  that  she  was  treading  on 


316        BErrr  WALES 

delicate  ground,  Betty  hastily  changed  the 
subject. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  asked  the  green  lizard  that 
night,  "  I  wonder  if  she  could  have  been 
telling  Miss  Ferris  about  it,  and  if  they  were 
talking  it  over  when  we  three  big  blunderers 
rushed  up  to  them.  Oh,  dear  ! " 

Then  she  added  aloud  to  Helen,  who  was 
vigorously  doing  breathing  exercises  before 
her  mirror,  "  I  guess  I'll  go  and  see  Mary 
Brooks.  I  feel  like  being  amused." 

Helen  let  her  breath  out  with  a  convulsive 
gasp,  "  I  saw  her  go  out,"  she  said.  "  She 
went  right  after  supper." 

"Then,"  said  Betty,  decidedly,  "you've 
got  to  stop  breathing  and  amuse  me  your^ 
self." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TRIUMPHS    AND   TROUBLES 

"  AREN'T  you  going  to  have  any  breakfast, 
Betty  ? "  Helen  Chase  Adams  coming  up 
from  her  own  hasty  Monday  morning  repast, 
paused  in  the  door  to  stare  at  her  roommate, 
who  stood  in  a  cleared  space  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  with  diaphanous  clouds  of  beflowered 
dimity  floating  about  her  feet. 

"  Breakfast !  "  repeated  Betty,  mournfully. 
"  It  just  struck  eight,  didn't  it  ?  I  don't  know 
how  I'm  going  to  have  any  now  unless  I  cut 
chapel  and  go  down  town  for  it.  On  Mon- 
days I  have  classes  all  the  morning  long,  and 
I  haven't  half  studied  anything  either,  because 
of  that  hateful  May  party." 

"  Then  why  did  you  begin  on  your  dress  ?  " 
inquired  Helen  with  annoying  acuteness. 

"  Helen,"  said  Betty,  tragically,  "  I  haven't 
a  single  muslin  to  my  name,  since  I  tore  my 
new  one  and  the  laundry  tore  my  old  one, 
and  I  thought  if  I  could  only  get  this  hung 

3'7 


318 

then  I  could  be  putting  in  the  tucks  at  odd 
minutes,  when  people  come  in,  you  know.  I 
didn't  think  it  would  take  a  minute  and  I've 
been  half  an  hour  just  looking  at  it." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  long  ?  "  asked  Helen,  with 
a  critical  glance  at  the  filmy  pile  on  the  floor. 

"  Why,  that's  the  tucks,"  explained  Betty, 
impatiently.  "  And  the  only  reason  I  had 
tucks  instead  of  ruffles  was  because  I  thought 
they'd  be  easier.  Shouldn't  you  have  thought 
tucks  would  be  easier,  Helen  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  have  known." 

"  Well,  I  guess  they're  both  bad  enough," 
agreed  Betty,  gloomily.  "  I  was  foolish  to 
try  to  make  a  dress,  but  I  thought  if  Nita  and 
the  B's  could,  I  could.  The  waist  wasn't  any 
trouble,  because  Emily  Davis  helped  me,  but 
it  isn't  much  use  without  a  skirt." 

"  Let  me  know  if  I  can  do  anything,"  said 
Helen,  politely,  opening  the  volume  of  Eliza- 
bethan lyrics  which  had  succeeded  "  The  Can- 
terbury Tales "  as  pabulum  for  the  class  in 
English  Literature  II. 

Betty  kicked  at  the  enveloping  cloud  sav- 
agely. "  If  only  it  would  stay  down  some- 
where, so  I  could  tell  where  the  bottom  ought 


SOPHOMORE  319 

to  be."  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  triumph, — "  "I 
have  it ! "  and  reaching  over  to  her  book- 
shelves she  began  dropping  books  in  an  even 
circle  around  her  feet.  An  instant  later  there 
was  a  crash  and  the  thud  of  falling  books. 

"There!"  said  Betty,  resignedly.  "That 
bookcase  has  come  to  pieces  again.  It's  as 
toppley  on  its  legs  as  a  ten-cent  doll.  Never 
mind,  Helen.  I  can  reach  them  beautifully 
now  and  I.  will  truly  pick  them  all  up  after- 
ward." She  dropped  a  Solid  Geometry  beside 
a  "  Greene's  History  of  the  English  People," 
and  stooped  gingerly  down  to  move  "  Alice  in 
Wonderland  "  a  trifle  to  one  side,  so  that  it 
should  close  the  circle. 

Then  she  looked  doubtfully  at  Helen,  who 
was  again  deep  in  her  lyrics. 

"  Helen,"  she  said  at  last,  "  would  you  mind 
awfully  if  I  asked  you  to  put  in  some  pins 
for  me?  If  I  stoop  down  to  put  them  in 
myself,  the  books  move  and  I  can't  tell  where 
the  pins  ought  to  go." 

Helen  had  just  put  in  the  last  pin  with 
painful  deliberation,  and  was  crawling  around 
her  necessarily  immovable  model  to  see  that 
she  had  made  no  mistakes,  when  the  door 


320        BErrr  WALES 

opened  with  a  flourish  and  Mary  Brooks 
appeared. 

"  What  in  the  world  I  "  she  began,  blinking 
near-sightedly  at  Betty  in  her  circle  of  books, 
at  the  ruins  of  the  "  toppley  "  bookcase  lying 
in  a  confused  heap  beside  her,  and  at  Helen, 
red  and  disheveled,  readjusting  pins.  Then 
she  gave  a  shriek  of  delight  and  rushing  upon 
Betty  fastened  something  to  her  shirt-waist. 

"  Get  up !  "  she  commanded  Helen.  "  Hurry 
now,  or  you'll  certainly  be  killed." 

In  a  twinkling  the  room  was  full  of  girls, 
shrieking,  laughing,  dancing,  tumbling  over 
the  books,  sinking  back  on  Betty's  couch  in 
convulsions  of  mirth  at  the  absurd  spectacle 
she  presented  and  getting  up  to  charge  into 
the  vortex  of  the  mob  and  hug  her  frantic- 
ally or  shake  her  hand  until  it  ached.  It  was 
fully  five  minutes  before  Betty  could  extri- 
cate herself  from  their  midst,  and  with  her 
trailing  draperies  limp  and  bedraggled  over 
one  arm,  make  her  way  to  Helen,  who  was 
standing  by  herself  in  a  corner,  quietly  enjoy- 
ing the  fun. 

"  Helen,"  she  cried,  catching  the  demure 
little  figure  in  her  arms,  "  Helen,  just  think 


SOPHOMORE  321 

of  it !  I'm  in  Dramatic  Club.  Oh,  Helen 
Chase  Adams,  how  did  it  ever  happen  ?  " 

The  room  cleared  out  gradually  after  that, 
and  the  nicest  part,  Betty  thought,  was  having 
the  people  you  liked  best  tell  you  in  intelli- 
gible English  and  comparative  quiet  how  very 
glad  they  were. 

"  I  never  in  all  my  life  saw  anybody  look 
so  funny  as  you  did  when  we  came  in,"  said 
Mary  Brooks  at  last.  "  What  were  you  doing, 
anyway  ?  " 

"  Hanging  a  skirt,"  explained  Betty,  with 
great  dignity. 

"  Was  it  going  to  have  a  court  train  all  the 
way  around?"  inquired  Mary. 

"  Tell  her,  Helen,"  commanded  Betty. 

"  That  was  tucks,  Mary,"  repeated  Helen, 
obediently,  and  then  everybody  laughed. 

Under  cover  of  the  mirth  Betty  sought 
out  Dorothy.  "  Where's  Eleanor?  "  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  She  went  off  for  Sunday  with  Polly  East- 
man,"  Dorothy  explained.  "  And  Betty,  she's 
a  trump  after  all.  She — but  I  think  perhaps 
she'd  rather  tell  you  herself." 

"  Betty,"  broke  in  Nita  Reese,  "  you  must 


322        BErrr  WALES 

hurry  and  get  dressed.  You'll  have  to  appeal 
at  chapel,  if  you  never  get  that  skirt  hung." 

"  Yes,"  said  Betty,  meekly. 

"  And  I'll  go  and  bribe  the  new  maid,  who 
hasn't  learned  the  rules  yet,  to  send  you  up 
some  breakfast,"  put  in  Madeline,  the  watchful. 

Nita  went  off  to  make  her  bed  and  Dorothy 
to  see  Mary's  prom,  dress  which  had  just  been 
sent  on  from  home.  Presently  the  new  maid 
appeared  with  toast  and  coffee  and  regrets 
that  "  the  eggs  was  out,  miss,"  and  Betty  sat 
down  at  her  desk  to  eat,  while  Helen,  the 
Elizabethan  lyrics  quite  forgotten,  rocked 
happily  beside  her. 

"  Helen,"  said  Betty,  a  spoonful  of  hot 
coffee  held  aloft  in  one  hand,  consternation 
hiding  her  dimples,  "  what  in  the  world  shall 
I  do  ?  I  told  you  I  hadn't  studied  anything, 
and  I  can't  flunk  now." 

"  Oh,  they  won't  call  on  you  to-day,"  said 
Helen  hopefully,  counting  the  Dramatic  Club 
pins  that  made  Betty's  shirt-waist  look  like  a 
small  section  of  a  jeweler's  window. 

"  Aren't  they  pretty  ?  "  said  Betty,  touching 
them  lovingly.  "  I  hope  the  girls  know 
which  is  which,  because  I  don't.  The  one 


SOPHOMORE  323 

with  the  pearl  gone  is  Bob's,  of  course,  ana 
Dorothy's  is  marked  on  the  back,  and  that's 
Mary's,  because  she  always  pins  it  on  wrong 
side  up.  One  of  the  others  is  Christy's,  and 
one  is  that  sweet  Miss  West's — she  writes 
poetry,  you  know,  and  is  on  the  '  Argus.' 
Wasn't  it  lovely  of  her  to  pin  it  on  me  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  anybody  would  be  glad  to 
have  you  wear  their  pin,"  said  Helen  loyally, 
if  ungrammatically. 

"But  to  think  the  society  wanted  me!" 
said  Betty  in  awe-struck  tones.  "  Helen,  you 
know  they  never  do  take  a  person  unless  she 
amounts  to  something,  now  do  they?  But 
what  in  the  world  do  I  amount  to  ?  " 

"  Does  being  an  all-around  girl  count  ?  " 
asked  Helen.  "  Because  the  senior  that  is 
such  a  friend  of  Eleanor  Watson's  said  you 
were  that,  and  that's  what  you  wanted  to  be, 
isn't  it?  But  I  think  myself,"  she  added 
shyly,  "  that  your  one  talent,  that  we  used  to 
talk  about  last  year,  you  know,  is  being  nice 
to  everybody." 

The  journey  to  chapel  was  a  triumphal 
procession.  The  girls  said  such  pleasant 
things.  Could  they  possibly  be  true,  Betty 


324        EErrr 

wondered.  Nan  would  be  pleased  to  know 
that  she  was  somebody  at  last,  even  if  she  had 
missed  the  team  both  years,  and  was  always 
being  mistaken  for  a  freshman.  Sitting  be- 
side Dorothy,  with  the  eight  pins  on  her  shirt- 
waist, and  a  guilty  consciousness  that  Miss 
Mills,  who  taught  "Lit.  II"  was  staring  at 
them  from  the  faculty  row,  Betty  resolved  that 
she  was  going  to  be  different — to  keep  her 
room  in  order,  not  to  do  ridiculous  things  at 
ridiculous  times,  and  always  to  study  Mon- 
day's lessons. 

"  I  have  tried  harder  lately,"  she  thought, 
but  it  was  reassuring  outside  chapel  to  have 
Miss  Mills  stop  to  shake  hands  and  Miss  Hale 
say  something  about  being  glad  that  Betty 
had  turned  out  a.  thoroughly  good  student. 

Mary  Brooks  said  the  same  thing.  "It's 
funny,  Betty,  how  your  innocent,  baby  airs 
belie  you.  If  we'd  guessed  what  a  splendid 
record  you'd  made  this  year,  we'd  have  taken 
you  in  even  sooner." 

Wherefore  Betty  was  glad  that  she  had 
looked  up  all  the  history  references  and  stayed 
at  home  from  the  Westcott  House  dance  to 
write  a  zoology  report  that  Professor  Lawrence 


SOPHOMORE  325 

himself  had  called  excellent,  and  done  her  best 
with  the  "  Canterbury  Tales." 

"  I  have  done  better  than  I  used  to  last 
year/'  she  thought  happily,  "  but  it  wasn't  for 
this,  not  one  bit.  It  was  because  a  person  is 
ashamed  not  to  do  her  best  up  here." 

"  Will  you  take  a  few  notes,  please?"  said 
Miss  Mills  in  crisp,  businesslike  tones,  and 
Betty  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  she  had  not 
answered  to  her  name  in  the  roll. 

"  She  saw  you,  though,"  whispered  Christy, 
"  and  she  was  properly  amused." 

Miss  Mills  had  finished  her  lecture  and  the 
class  in  "  Lit.  II"  was  making  its  leisurely 
exit,  when  Jean  Eastman  caught  up  with 
Betty. 

"  Glad  you've  gone  into  the  great  and 
only,"  she  said  with  a  hearty  hand-shake. 
"  And  what  do  you  think  about  the  Lady 
Eleanor's  latest  escapade  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Jean,"  said 
Betty  quickly,  remembering  Dorothy's  hint, 
and  wondering  why  Eleanor  hadn't  come  to 
chapel,  since  Polly  was  there,  and  she  and 
Eleanor  would  surely  have  come  back  to- 
gether. 


326        BErrr  WALES 

"  Why,  resigning  from  Dramatic  Club,  of 
course.  Didn't  she  consult  you  about  it  ?  " 

"  Jean,  do  you  mean  that  Eleanor — has  re- 
signed— from  Dramatic  Club  ?  "  Pleasure  and 
bewilderment  struggled  for  the  mastery  of 
Betty's  face. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jean  carelessly.  "  Funny  you 
hadn't  heard  of  it,  because  it's  the  talk  of  the 
whole  college.  She  sent  a  note  in  Saturday 
night,  it  seems,  but  nobody  outside  heard  of  it 
till  this  morning,  and  now  we're  all  speculat- 
ing over  the  whys  and  wherefores.  The  Clio 
girls  say  that  if  she  did  it  because  she  thought 
she'd  rather  go  into  that,  she  will  be  doomed 
to  everlasting  disappointment.  For  my  part 
I  don't  think  that  was  her  reason."  Jean's 
tone  hinted  of  deep  mysteries. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Betty  indignantly. 
"  Can't  they  see,  Jean,  that  a  girl  has  got  to 
have  a  big,  splendid  reason  for  doing  a  thing 
like  that?" 

"  A  big  reason  all  right,  but  I  don't  know 
about  the  splendor,"  returned  Jean  cheerfully, 
shouldering  her  way  across  the  stream  of  girls 
in  the  hall  to  join  Beatrice  Egerton. 

To  Jean's  disappointment  Beatrice  had  noth- 


SOPHOMORE  327 

ing  to  say  about  the  resignation,  except  that 
it  was  Eleanor's  own  affair  and  that  all  the 
talk  about  it  was  utter  nonsense.  Then  Jean, 
warming  to  her  work,  ventured  a  direct  at- 
tack. 

"  But  Miss  Egerton,  wasn't  there  something 
queer  about  that  story  of  Eleanor's — the  one 
that  got  her  in  ?  You  were  going  to  tell  me 
once,  but  you  never  did." 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  once,  but  I  never 
did  ?  "  repeated  Beatrice  with  an  extreme  affa- 
bility which  those  who  knew  her  better  than 
Jean  would  have  recognized  as  dangerous. 
"  Go  and  ask  Eleanor  Watson  that  question  if 
you  care  to,  Miss  Eastman.  I  admire  her  far 
too  much  to  wish  to  discuss  her  private  affairs 
with  you.  Thank  you,  I  should  like  to  go  to 
your  house-play,  but  I  have  another  engage- 
ment. The  night  isn't  set?  But  really,  I'm 
so  busy  just  now  I  can't  promise,  you  know." 

Beatrice  Egerton  had  not  spent  four  years 
at  Harding  College  for  nothing.  She  was  in- 
capable of  heroism  herself,  but  she  could  ap- 
preciate certain  types  cf  it  in  others,  and  she 
was  bitterly  ashamed  of  the  part  she  had 
played  in  Eleanor's  affairs. 


328         BErrr  WALES 

"  Miss  Wales,"  she  said  an  hour  later,  when 
her  path  from  class  to  class  crossed  with 
Betty's,  "  where  is  Eleanor?  I  can't  wait  an- 
other minute  to  see  her." 

Betty  explained  that  Eleanor  had  not  ap- 
peared at  chapel  or  morning  classes. 

"  Then  I  suppose,"  said  Beatrice  impulsively, 
"  that  I  am  one  of  the  people  she's  trying  to 
avoid.  Go  and  see  her  the  first  chance  you 
have,  Miss  Wales,  and  tell  her  that  I  admire 
her  grit — and  that  I'm  too  much  ashamed  of 
myself  to  come  and  say  so.  Now  don't  for- 
get. Did  you  ever  see  such  duds  as  the  pickle 
heiress  wears  ?  Perfect  rags  !  " 

The  mocking,  insolent  Beatrice  was  back 
again,  the  more  debonnaire  lor  the  effort  that 
her  confession  had  cost. 

Betty  meditated  cutting  her  eleven  o'clock 
class,  decided  that  with  those  eight  pins  on  it 
would  never  do,  and  tried  not  to  be  glad  that 
a  severe  headache  prevented  Mademoiselle 
from  meeting  her  French  division  at  twelve. 
She  walked  down  to  the  Hilton  House  with  a 
chattering  little  freshman,  one  of  Polly  East- 
man's chums  and  a  devoted  admirer  of  Elea- 
nor's. 


SOPHOMORE  329 

"  It's  too  bad  that  Eleanor  Watson  felt  she 
ought  to  give  up  Dramatic  Club,  isn't  it?" 
said  the  girl.  "  Some  of  the  girls  think  it  was 
an  awfully  queer  thing  to  do,  but  I  think  it's 
fine  to  put  your  work  first  when  you  don't 
feel  strong  enough  to  do  everything." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  Betty  cordially,  glad 
to  be  able  to  meet  her  on  her  own  ground. 

"  Polly  is  afraid,"  volunteered  the  little 
freshman,  "that  Eleanor  is  going  to  break 
down.  She's  had  to  drop  themes,  too,  you 
know.  Polly  said  they  almost  missed  their 
train  Saturday  night  because  Eleanor  would 
wait  to  write  to  Miss  Raymond  about  it,  when 
anybody  could  see  that  Monday  would  have 
done  just  as  well.  And  she  was  so  tired 
that  she  cried  while  she  was  writing  the 
note." 

Betty  shook  off  her  loquacious  companion 
by  stopping  on  the  second  floor  to  see  a  girl 
who  was  sure  to  be  out,  and  went  on  up  the 
back  stairway  to  Eleanor's  corner. 

There  was  no  answer  to  her  knock,  and  after 
a  second  trial  she  deliberately  opened  the  door 
and  went  in.  Eleanor  lay  in  a  forlorn  di- 
sheveled little  heap  on  her  couch.  Her  cheeks 


330        BErrr 

were  flushed  with  crying,  her  eyes  rimmed 
with  dark  circles  that  made  them  look  bigger 
and  brighter  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  the  door  was  locked,"  she 
cried,  when  Betty  appeared. 

"  But  luckily  for  me  it  wasn't."  Betty 
took  her  up  brightly,  dropping  sociably  down 
to  the  couch  beside  her.  "  You  dear  old 
Eleanor,"  she  went  on  quickly,  "  I've  come  to 
tell  you  that  Dorothy  thinks  you're  a  trump 
and  Beatrice  Egerton  thinks  you're  a  brick 
and  I'm  so  proud  of  you  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  There  now  !  " 

"  Oh,  Betty,  you  can't  be,  after  everything." 
Eleanor  shook  off  the  clinging  arms  and  sat 
up  among  the  pillows.  "  Listen,"  she  com- 
manded. "  It  isn't  fair  for  me  to  take  any- 
thing from  you  after  what  I've  thought.  I 
had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Blake  this  morning. 
He  has  been  very  nice  to  me  about  the  story, 
Betty.  And  he  said  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
tell  me  what  good  friends  I  had  here.  So 
now  I  know  all  about  it,  but  oh,  Betty !  Fd 
thought  such  horrid  things " 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  said  Betty. 
"  Please  don't  tell  me.  It  would  only  hurt 


SOPHOMORE  331 

both  of  us,  and  it  wouldn't  be  any  use  that  I 


can  see." 


"  I'm  a  coward,  too,"  Eleanor  went  on 
steadily.  "  I  was  afraid  to  see  Beatrice,  and 
now  I'm  afraid  to  see  Jean  and  all  the  rest  of 
them.  Oh,  Betty,  I  can't  bear  to  have  people 
think  I'm  a  freak.  If  I  could  take  those  two 
notes  back  I  would  this  minute.  I  hate 
giving  things  up.  There,  now  you  know 
just  how  mean  I  am." 

"  No,"  said  Betty,  gently,  "  I  only  know 
how  tired  you  are  and  how  much  you  needed 
some  one  to  come  in  and  tell  you  that  we  are 
all  ready  to  stand  by  you." 

Eleanor  waited  a  minute  before  she  an- 
swered. "  Betty,"  she  said  at  last,  an  uncer- 
tain little  smile  fluttering  about  her  mouth, 
"  shall  you  be  glad  when  you've  got  me 
through  college?"  Then  she  straightened 
with  sudden  energy.  "  This  is  your  day, 
Betty," — she  pointed  to  the  pins, — "  and  I 
won't  spoil  another  minute  of  it.  Of  course 
there  isn't  any  use  in  hiding  up  here.  I 
promise  to  go  down  to  lunch  and  to  take 
what's  coming  to  me,  and  do  the  best  I  can. 


332        BErrr  WALES 

Now  run  and  let  the  rest  of  the  college  con- 
gratulate you." 

"  And  if  the  Chapin  house  girls  should 

have  a  spread  to-night  over  at  Rachel's " 

began  Betty,  doubtfully. 

"  I'll  come.  I'll  even  be  the  life  of  the 
party.  Only  you're  not  to  worry  about  me 
one  instant  longer." 

Eleanor  kept  her  word  to  the  letter  for  the 
rest  of  the  day,  but  the  weeks  that  followed 
were  necessarily  full  of  ups  and  downs,  of 
petty  humiliations  and  bitter  discouragements, 
and  Betty  uncomplainingly  shared  them  all. 
The  editors  did  what  little  they  could,  and 
Madeline  and  Miss  Ferris  and  Katherine  and 
Rachel  helped  without  understanding  any- 
thing except  that  Betty  wanted  them  to ;  but 
the  brunt  of  it  all  fell  on  her. 

"  I  can't  bother  Miss  Ferris  with  my  blues," 
said  Eleanor  one  afternoon,  "  and  I  know  I 
oughtn't  to  bother  you  with  them." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Betty.  "I  like 
being  bothered,"  and  did  not  mention  that 
she  had  given  up  the  golf  tournament  be- 
cause the  practice  would  have  interfered  with 
her  position  as  Eleanor's  confidante. 


SOPHOMORE  333 

There  were  nice  things  to  share  too.  Miss 
Raymond  wrote  a  prompt  and  cordial  answer 
to  Eleanor's  note  about  the  theme  course. 
"  After  your  action  of  last  week,  I  see  no 
reason  why  you  should  not  continue  in  my 
classes  on  the  old,  pleasant  footing.  Please 
don't  deprive  me  of  the  privilege  of  seeing 
your  work." 

There  was  a  note  from  the  Dramatic  Club 
too.  Dorothy  had  managed  to  get  herself  and 
Beatrice  and  Frances  made  a  special  commit- 
tee to  consider  the  resignation — the  first  in 
the  annals  of  the  society, — and  they  decided 
to  accept  it  for  one  year  from  its  date.  After 
that,  they  said,  they  saw  no  reason  "to  de- 
prive the  society  of  a  valued  member." 

Betty  was  delighted,  but  Eleanor  shook  her 
head.  "  I  may  not  have  earned  it  even  then," 
she  said  gloomily. 

"  Leave  it  to  Miss  Ferris,"  suggested  Betty. 
"  She'll  be  a  perfectly  fair  judge.  If  she  says 
you  can  take  it  then,  you  will  know  it's  all 
right." 

And  to  this  arrangement,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, Eleanor  consented. 

A  week  or  two  later  Bob  came  to  Eleanor, 


334        BErrr  WALES 

in  a  sad  state  of  embarrassment.  "  It's  about 
the  basket-ball  song,  Eleanor.  The  commit- 
tee never  saw  it.  Babe  was  chairman,  you 
know,  and  she  put  her  shoulder  out  of  joint 
playing  hockey  the  day  the  songs  were  called 
in,  so  I  emptied  the  box  for  her.  I  remember 
I  stopped  in  my  room  on  the  way  back  and  I 
must  have  dropped  yours  there.  Anyhow  it 
turned  up  to-day  in  my  top  drawer.  I'm 
awfully  sorry." 

Eleanor  took  the  song  and  read  through  a 
stanza  or  two,  while  Bob  wriggled,  blushed 
and  waited  for  the  storm  to  burst.  She  had 
heard  a  good  deal  about  Eleanor  Watson's 
uncertain  temper. 

But  at  first  Eleanor  only  laughed.  "  Good- 
ness !  What  jiggly  meter !  It's  lucky  you 
lost  it,  Bob." 

"  No,"  said  Bob,  sturdily.  "  It  was  a  dandy 
Bong,  one  of  the  best  that  came  in.  Babe  said 
so  too.  I  am  really  awfully  sorry.  I'm  too 
careless  to  live." 

"  Well,  you  were  lucky  not  to  have  found 
it  a  month  ago,"  said  Eleanor,  with  a  sudden 
flash  of  anger,  and  Bob  departed,  wondering. 

"  Little  things  do  make  a  big  difference," 


SOPHOMORE  335 

said  Betty,  when  she  heard  the  story.  "  If 
they'd  chosen  it  and  everybody  had  said  how 
clever  it  was " 

"  I  should  have  felt  that  I'd  squared  my 
account — proved  that  I  could  do  what  I 
hadn't  done,  and  I  should  never  have  owned 
up  to  anybody." 

"  Then  you  really  ought  to  have  been  nicer 
to  Bob,"  laughed  Betty,  "  because  she  helped 
you  to  come  to  the  point." 

"  Yes,  that  helped,"  Eleanor  admitted, 
soberly,  "just  as  Dora  helped  and  Beatrice  in 
her  way  and  Jim  in  his ;  but  you  were  the  one 
who  meant  to  help,  Betty.  You  got  me  the 
chance  to  begin  over,  and  you  made  up  my 
mind  for  me  about  taking  it,  and  you've  kept 
me  to  it  ever  since." 

"But  El " 

"Now  let's  not  argue  about  it,"  laughed 
Eleanor.  "  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  I'm 
going  to  try  to  be  nice  to  you  to  the  extent  of 
'  staying  put '  this  time.  I  don't  mean  that 
you  shall  have  to  waste  your  junior  year  over 


me." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GOOD-BYES 

"  OH,  Betty  Wales,  what's  your  hurry  ?  " 

Betty,  who  had  strolled  up  Main  Street  with 
Emily  Davis  and  now  was  walking  back  alone, 
turned  to  see  Eleanor  and  Dora  Carlson  com- 
ing down  the  steps  of  the  house  behind  her. 

"  We're  hunting  rooms,"  explained  Eleanor, 
gaily,  "  the  most  systematic  hunt  you  ever 
heard  of.  We  went  to  every  possible  house  on 
the  other  side  on  the  way  up,  and  then  we 
came  back  on  this  side,  doing  the  same  thing. 
So  if  you  want  any  pointers " 

"  But  you're  not  going  off  the  campus, 
Eleanor,"  asked  Betty  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  a  room  for  me,"  interposed 
Dora,  with  an  adoring  glance  at  Eleanor. 
"  I've  always  longed  to  live  up  among  the 
elm-trees  of  Main  Street,  but  I  knew  its  glories 
were  not  for  me  until " 

"  Dora,"  warned  Eleanor,  laughingly,  "  I 
told  you  not  to  mention  elm-trees  again  this 

336 


SOPHOMORE  337 

afternoon."  She  turned  to  Betty.  "  They  all 
come  down  to  two  possibilities.  Which  should 
you  prefer,  a  big  room  with  a  microscopic 
closet  or  a  microscopic  room  with  an  enor- 
mous closet?  " 

"  Oh,  the  one  with  the  big  closet,"  said 
Betty,  decidedly.  "  I've  tried  the  other,  you 
know." 

"  And  unknown  horrors  are  always  prefer- 
able to  familiar  ones,"  laughed  Eleanor. 

Dora  left  them  at  the  next  corner  and  as 
soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing  Betty  turned 
upon  Eleanor.  "  Well,"  she  said,  "  I've 
caught  you  in  the  act,  and  I  think  it's  per- 
fectly lovely  of  you.  College  will  be  a  differ- 
ent place  to  her  if  she  can  live  up  here  some- 
where near  things." 

"It  will  be  nicer  for  her,  I  think,"  said 
Eleanor,  simply.  "  But  Betty  >  I'm  not  doing 
much, — just  making  her  a  little  present  of  the 
difference  between  Mrs.  Bryant's  prices  and 
the  very  cheapest  ones  up  here.  I  can  do  as 
much  as  that,  I  hope,  after  spoiling  her  sugar- 
ing-off  party ;  and  I  really  don't  need  that 
extra-priced  room  again." 

"  You   mean,"  said   Betty,  in  amazement, 


338        BErrr  WALES 

"  that  you're  going  to  give  up  your  corner- 
room  with  the  three  windows  and  the  lovely 
burlap  hangings?  " 

Eleanor  nodded.  "  It  wouldn't  be  much  of 
a  present  from  me  if  I  just  asked  father  for 
the  money." 

"  Eleanor,"  said  Betty,  solemnly,  "  I  don't 
believe  I  could  do  it." 

"  But  it's  really  all  your  doing,  Betty.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  you,  I  shouldn't  have 
known  Dora  Carlson,  and  I  shouldn't  be  here 
now.  Besides,  you  set  the  example  with 
Helen.  So  if  you  don't  like  it,  there's  only 
yourself  to  thank,  you  see,"  ended  Eleanor, 
playfully. 

"  No,  I  don't  see, — not  one  bit,"  declared 
Betty.  "  You'll  be  telling  me  that  I'm  re- 
sponsible for  the  way  you  recite  next." 

"  Well,  you  are,  partly,"  laughed  Eleanor, 
turning  off  to  the  Hilton. 

Betty  went  up-stairs  behind  two  strange 
girls  who  were  evidently  expecting  to  be  in 
the  Belden  House  next  year. 

"  Of  course  the  fourth  floor  is  a  long  way 
up,"  one  was  saying,  "  and  I  suppose  it's 


SOPHOMORE  339 

hot  sometimes.  But  if  I  can  get  a  single 
room  there,  I'd  rather  have  it,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"  Well,  perhaps,"  answered  the  other  doubt- 
fully. 

"  No  perhapses  about  it,  my  friend,"  thought 
Betty,  turning  off  to  her  own  quarters. 
Rooms  and  roommates — the  air  was  full  of 
them  !  And  to-morrow  was  the  day  that  the 
Belden  House  matron  had  appointed  for 
settling  all  such  matters.  Betty  could  have  a 
single  room,  if  she  wanted  it,  on  the  other 
side  of  Madeline  Ayres,  and  she  had  almost 
made  up  her  mind  to  take  it.  To  be  sure,  it 
did  seem  a  little  hard  on  Helen.  Nobody  in 
the  house  had  approached  her  on  the  subject 
of  roommates,  Betty  felt  sure  of  that;  she 
would  have  to  be  "  assigned  "  with  some  out- 
sider. Well,  why  not?  If  she  didn't  take 
the  trouble  to  make  friends,  of  course  she 
would  have  to  suffer  the  consequences.  And 
yet — if  Eleanor  had  really  been  influenced  by 
what  she  had  tried  to  do  for  Helen,  wouldn't 
it  be  mean  to  back  out  now  ?  "  But  Eleanor 
has  decided  already,"  thought  Betty,  "and 


340 

there's  no  reason  why  I  should  keep  on 
bothering  with  Helen  forever.  I  don't  believe 
she's  one  bit  happier  for  it." 

Helen  looked  up  expectantly  when  Betty 
came  in.  After  all  she  was  a  sweet  little 
thing ;  her  face  lighted  up  wonderfully  at 
times. 

"What's  the  news,  Helen?"  Betty  asked. 
"  You  look  as  if  something  extra  nice  had 
happened." 

"  Why  no,"  answered  Helen,  "  unless  you 
count  that  I've  learned  my  Latin  for  to- 


morrow." 


The  answer  was  just  like  her,  Betty  re- 
flected with  a  sigh.  She  might  improve  a 
great  deal,  but  she  would  be  a  "  dig  "  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter.  As  she  dressed,  Betty 
tried  to  lead  up  gradually  to  the  subject  of 
rooms  by  telling  about  the  two  strange  girls 
she  had  met  in  the  hall.  But  it  was  no  use  ; 
Helen  preserved  the  same  gentle,  obtuse 
silence  that  had  kept  Betty  from  opening  the 
subject  before.  Little  by  little  her  courage 
oozed  out,  and  with  the  ringing  of  the  supper- 
bell  she  surrendered. 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  she  told  the  green  lizard 


SOPHOMORE  341 

savagely.  "  She  thinks  we're  settled  here  for- 
ever and  I  can't  bear  to  disappoint  her.  It's 
not  generosity  though ;  it's  just  hating  to 
make  a  fuss." 

At  supper  all  the  girls  were  talking  about 
rooms.  "  I'm  first  on  the  waiting  list  for 
singles,"  Nita  Reese  announced,  "  but  I  might 
as  well  be  first  on  the  waiting  list  for  a  trip  to 
the  moon,  I  suppose.  Nobody  ever  gives  up 
a  chance  at  a  sing1^." 

Betty  opened  her  mouth  to  tell  Nita  the  sad 
truth,  saw  Helen  looking  at  her  queerly,  and 
shut  it  again.  It  would  be  time  enough  for 
Nita  to  hear  of  her  good  fortune  to-morrow. 

After  supper  Helen  hurried  back  to  her 
work  and  Betty  joined  a  merry  party  on  the 
piazza,  went  for  a  moonlight  stroll  on  the 
campus,  helped  serenade  Dorothy  King,  and 
finally,  just  as  the  ten  o'clock  bell  was  peal- 
ing warningly  through  the  halls,  rushed  in 
upon  Helen  in  a  state  of  breathless  excitement. 

"  Helen,"  she  cried,  "  T.  Reed's  coming  into 
the  Belden  and  you  never  told  me." 

"  I  didn't  know  till  this  afternoon." 

"  Then  that  was  the  piece  of  news  I  saw  in 
your  face.  Why  didn't  you  tell  it?  " 


342 


"  Why,  I  don't  know 


"  Helen,"  cried  Betty,  with  a  sudden  in- 
spiration, "  you  and  T.  Reed  want  to  room  to- 
gether." 

"  Oh,  Betty,  Theresa  couldn't  have  gone 
and  said  so  !  "  Helen  looked  the  picture  of 
distress. 

"  Nobody  went  and  said  so  till  you  did  just 
now,"  laughed  Betty.  "  Oh,  Helen,  why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you'd  rather 
room  alone  ?  " 

Then  they  both  laughed  and,  sitting  close  to- 
gether on  Helen's  bed  in  the  dark,  talked  it 
all  over. 

"You've  been  just  lovely,"  Helen  said. 
"  You've  given  me  all  the  good  times  I've 
had  —  except  Theresa.  But  you  couldn't  make 
it  any  different  from  what  it  is.  I  never  shall 
know  how  to  get  along  the  way  other  girls  do, 
and  Theresa  is  a  good  deal  the  same  way,  ex- 
cept that  she  can  play  basket-ball.  So  I  guess 
we  belong  together." 

"  You  needn't  think  you'll  be  rid  of  me," 
said  Betty.  "  I  shall  be  just  two  doors  away, 
and  I  shall  come  in  and  bother  you  when  you 


SOPHOMORE  343 

want  to  work  and  take  you  walking  and  ask 
you  to  hook  up  my  dresses,  just  as  I  do  now. 
Helen,  how  fast  things  are  getting  settled." 

"  They'd  better  be,"  said  Helen.  "  There's 
only  two  weeks  left  of  our  sophomore  year." 

For  a  long  time  Betty  lay  awake,  staring  at 
the  patch  of  moonlight  on  the  floor  beside 
her  bed.  "  How  mean  I  should  have  felt,  if 
I'd  told  her  when  she  wouldn't  tell  me,"  she 
thought.  "  I  wonder  if  it's  all  right  now.  I 
wonder  if  next  year  is  going  to  be  as  perfect 

as  it  seems.  I  wonder "  Betty  Wales 

was  asleep.  Five  minutes  later  she  woke  from 
a  cat-nap  that  had  turned  her  last  thoughts 
into  a  very  realistic  dreamland.  "  No,"  she 
decided,  "  it  won't  be  quite  perfect.  Dorothy 
will  be  gone." 

Those  are  the  good-byes  that  count — the 
ones  you  must  say  to  the  seniors.  Dorothy 
would  come  back  to  visit  the  college,  of 
course,  and  to  attend  class  reunions,  but  that 
would  not  be  the  same  thing  as  living  next 
door  to  her  all  through  the  year.  Betty  was 
not  going  to  stay  to  Commencement.  Sopho- 
mores were  only  in  everybody's  way  then,  she 
thought,  and  she  preferred  to  say  good-bye 


344  BETTY   WALES 

to  Dorothy  before  the  onslaught  of  families, 
alumnse  and  friends  should  have  upset  the 
regular  routine  of  life  and  made  the  seniors 
seem  already  lost  to  the  college  world.  Pack- 
ing was  worse  than  ever  this  year,  and  exami- 
nations could  not  have  been  more  inconve- 
niently arranged,  but  in  spite  of  everything 
Betty  slipped  off  on  her  last  evening  for  a 
few  minutes  with  Dorothy. 

The  Belden  House  was  a  pandemonium, 
the  piazzas  deserted,  the  hot  rooms  ablaze 
with  lights,  the  halls  noisy  with  the  banging 
of  trunk-lids  and  the  cries  of  distracted  dam- 
sels ;  but  the  Hilton,  either  because  it  had 
more  upper-class  girls  who  were  staying  to 
Commencement,  or  because  its  freshmen  and 
sophomores  were  of  a  serener  temperament, 
showed  few  signs  of  "  last  days."  The  piazza 
was  full,  as  it  always  was  on  warm  nights, 
and  a  soft  little  crooning  song  was  wafted 
across  the  lawn  to  Betty's  ears.  Dorothy  was 
singing.  Her  voice  was  not  highly  cultivated, 
but  it  was  the  kind  of  voice  that  has  a  soul 
in  it — which  is  better  than  much  training. 
As  Betty  stole  softly  up  to  the  piazza,  so  as 
not  to  interrupt  the  song,  and  found  a  place 


SOPHOMORE  345 

on  the  railing,  she  remembered  her  first  even- 
ing in  Harding.  How  forlorn  and  frightened 
she  had  been,  and  how  lovely  Dorothy  was  to 
her.  Well,  she  had  been  just  as  lovely  ever 
since. 

Dorothy's  song  stopped  suddenly.  "  Girls, 
I  can't  sing  to-night,"  she  said.  "  It's — so — 
warm.  And  besides,  Betty  Wales  has  come 
to  see  me  on  a  very  particular  errand,  haven't 
you,  Betty,  dear  ?  " 

Up  in  Dorothy's  room,  in  the  dusk,  nobody 
said  much  of  anything.  There  is  never  much 
left  to  say  at  the  last.  But  Dorothy  had  a 
way  of  putting  things  and  of  looking  at  things 
that  was  like  nobody's  else,  Betty  thought ; 
and  when  she  said,  "  I  know  I  can  trust  you 
to  work  for  the  democratic,  helpful  spirit  and 
to  keep  down  cliques  and  snobbishness  and 
see  that  everybody  has  a  fair  chance  and  a 
good  time,"  Betty  felt  more  pleased  than  she 
had  about  her  election  to  Dramatic  Club.  She 
had  been  Dorothy's  lieutenant.  Now  she  must 
be  Dorothy's  successor,  and  it  was  a  great 
honor  and  a  greater  responsibility — but  first 
she  must  pack  her  trunks. 

On   the  way  home  she  overtook  Roberta. 


346        BErrr  WALES 

"  I'm  in  the  Belden,  Betty,"  she  announced, 
breathlessly,  "  and  there  are  a  lot  of  things  I 
want  to  ask  you  and  Mary  about,  but  I  can't 
stay  long,  because  those  dear  little  freshmen 
are  going  to  give  me  a  good-bye  spread." 

"  Those  snippy  freshmen  ?  "  laughed  Betty. 

"  Oh,  but  they  came  around  after  the  Jabber- 
wock  party,  just  as  you  said  they  would.  It 
was  an  impromptu  party,  Betty.  I  did  it  the 
night  Sara  Westervelt  was  there,  and  some- 
body stole  the  ice  cream.  That's  why  you 
weren't  invited." 

Up-stairs  the  rest  of  the  "  old  guard  "  were 
sitting  on  boxes,  trunks  and  the  floor,  waiting 
to  say  good-bye  to  Betty  and  meanwhile  being 
entertained  by  Madeline  Ayres,  who  was 
giving  a  lively  account  of  her  experience  with 
a  washwoman. 

"  She  said,  '  It's  twinty  white  skirruts  Oi 
have  to  do  up  now,  me  dear,'  and  I  said, 
'  But  I  can't  go  without  a  skirt,  Mrs.  Mul- 
vaney,  and  everybody  who  doesn't  wear  white 
to  chapel  will  be  expelled,  and  then  where 
will  your  goose  that  lays  the  golden  eggs  be?' 
'  Shure,  I  kape  no  geese,  me  dear,'  said  she, 
and — oh,  here's  Betty." 


SOPHOMORE  347 

•*  Finish  up,"  demanded  Katherine. 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  any  more,"  said  Madeline, 
"except  that  she's  just  sent  the  skirt  home, 
and  it  isn't  mine,  but  it  fits  rather  well, 
doesn't  it,  and  I  can't  possibly  return  it  before 
chapel,  now  can  I  ?  " 

"Is  that  the  way  they  do  in  Bohemia?" 
said  Mary,  severely.  "  Betty,  I've  got  to  have 
half  your  bed  to-night.  An  alum,  who  came 
on  from  San  Francisco  got  mixed  in  her  dates 
and  appeared  a  day  too  early.  And  as  she  is 
a  particular  pal  of  the  matron  and  I  am  no- 
toriously good-natured,  she's  got  my  room." 

"  To  think  of  it,"  said  Katherine,  impress- 
ively, "and  you  a  senior  next  week." 

"  And  we  juniors  next  week  !  "  said  Rachel. 
"  It  doesn't  seem  possible,  does  it  ?  Here's  to 
hoping  we  shall  all  be  back  next  year." 

"  What  a  forlorn  toast !  "  said  Katherine, 
who  knew  better  than  the  rest  how  hard  it 
was  for  Rachel  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
"  Here's  to  hoping  that  we  all  go  on  as  splen- 
didly as  we've  begun  !  " 

"  You  have  done  tolerably  well  so  far,  chil- 
dren," said  Mary,  beaming  around  the  group. 

"  See     the     society    pins     bristle     in    our 


348 

midst ! "  said  Katherine,  with  melodramatic 
gestures  in  the  direction  of  Mary,  Betty,  and 
of  Rachel,  who  wore  the  Clio  Club  insignia 
proudly. 

"  And  we've  got  the  college  beauty,"  added 
Betty  quickly. 

"  And  the  Jabberwock,"  put  in  Eleanor. 

"  Please  don't  forget  the  basket-ball  stars," 
suggested  Katherine,  with  becoming  modesty. 

"  Nor  the  basket-ball  song,"  added  Rachel, 
smiling  at  Helen. 

"  So  many  honors,"  laughed  Betty.  "  Do 
you  suppose  we've  left  anything  for  next 
year  ?  " 

"  The  song  of  the  classes  talks  about  'jolly 
juniors,'  "  said  Rachel.  "  That  sounds  as  if 
there  would  be  plenty  of  fun  in  it." 

"  There  is  ;  junior  year  is  the  nicest  one  in 
college,"  declared  Mary. 

"  It  can't  be,"  objected  Katherine, "  because 
each  year  has  been  as  nice  as  it  possibly 
could." 

"  Unless  you  were  foolish  enough  to  spoil 
it,"  whispered  Eleanor  in  Betty's  ear. 

Roberta  suddenly  remembered  her  waiting 
freshmen,  Mary  offered  to  escort  her  to  Mrs. 


SOPHOMORE  349 

Chapin's,  and  the  other  three  declared  they 
must  go  home  to  their  packing.  Betty  and 
the  girl  from  Bohemia  went  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs  to  see  them  off.  It  was  not  exactly 
good-bye,  because  there  were  chances  of  meet- 
ing at  chapel  and  the  station,  but  it  was  near 
enough  to  it  to  be  a  little  sad. 

"Oh,  dear,  I  hate  endings,"  said  Betty, 
waving  her  hand  to  Eleanor. 

"  Do  you  ? "  said  the  girl  from  Bohemia. 
"You'd  get  used  to  them  if  you  lived  my 
scrappy,  now-here-and-now-there  kind  of  life. 
You'd  find  out  that  one  thing  has  to  end  be- 
fore another  can  begin,  and  that  each  new 
one  is  too  good  to  miss." 

"  Um — perhaps,"  said  Betty,  doubtfully. 
"  Any  how  we've  got  to  take  the  chance.  So 
here's  to  junior  year  1 " 


The  Books  of  this  Series  are  I 

BETTY  WALES  FRESHMAN 
BETTY  WALES  SOPHOMORE 
BETTY  WALES  JUNIOR 
BETTY  WALES  SENIOR 
BETTY  WALES  B.  A. 
BETTY  WALES  &  CO. 
BETTY  WALES  ON  THE  CAMPUS 
BETTY  WALES  DECIDES 


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